


tip of the iceberg

by karauna



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Gen, M/M, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Slow Burn, bc ofc they are it's jaskier for gods sake, except they're monsters, ger/yen is mentioned yes, geralt is an idiot and i love him, geraskier is endgoal i swear, griffins. lots of griffins., jaskier has a lot of moms, jaskier rolls 20 on all charisma checks, proof-reading? who's she, so many griffins., thats what this is now, this was a lot more crackish in my head tbh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-02-19 06:49:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 38,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22873546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karauna/pseuds/karauna
Summary: On his way down the mountain, Jaskier discovers his true calling as a monster-taming minstrel. It's weird. It's wild. It's... kinda cool, actually.In which, between Geralt's stupid face and nearly getting grinded into birdfeed, Jaskier's sure Destiny took a fat dump in his pint of ale.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 413
Kudos: 1017
Collections: Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	1. Błękit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chad griffin versus virgin Jaskier.

Between running and screaming and cursing Geralt’s existence in equal measure, Jaskier is having a great time.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck-- holy fuck, _Geralt!_ Perhaps those lovely potions of yours are ruining your eyesight because, in fact, if you haven’t _noticed_ \--” Jaskier absolutely didn’t squeak as a claw bigger than his arm whizzed over his head. “-- _Th_ _ere’s a fucking griffin trying to kill me,_ you surrogate bastard!”

Geralt, of course, was too wallowing on a fucking mountain to even care, though.

Another claw, another squeak, and Jaskier starts shouting with renewed vigor; even waving his fist through the air before pulling it back to his side as it nearly got _bitten off_. “The witcher’s further up the mountain, you thrice-cursed pilfered pillow-case!”

Jaskier is getting tired of this, to be honest. At the very least, being chased by a giant royal griffin was _great_ motivation when it came to the journey southwards.

Really, he's thinking that the world would cut him some slack after the whole, ‘hm, I’m Geralt, I’m a bit of a dick and everything is all your fault Jaskier, blah-blah-blah, let me just stick my dick in the psychotic witch one last time,’ ordeal that happened literally _thirty minutes ago_.

He could sing entire nights away crafting ballad after ballad about Destiny’s svelte seduction and loving caresses, but she really is just an absolute massive bitch sometimes.

Abruptly, Jaskier’s brain caught up to his current situation as his foot landed on a sharp stone. The edge pierced through the worn sole of his boot, stabbing the arch of his foot and creaking against the bone. With a strangled shout, he toppled over-- hand still holding the neck of his lute in a vice as pain lanced through his veins and dotted his vision with splotches of black.

Fuck.

His ears caught the distant sound of ruffling feathers and the crash of the trees as the griffin- a royal one, at that- hunted for its prey. With an almost resigned twist of his gut, Jaskier licked his lips and settled the lute in his lap; a final comfort as he shoved himself backwards-- as far from the treeline as he could get. He felt his back collide with a wall of… _something_. 

Craning his head around, he regretted his decision almost immediately.

A fucking nest of shrubs, branches and the odd rotting human body stared back at him and, with a nod of delirious horror, Jaskier noted the shiny eggs nestled in the middle.

Oh.

Oh, that's not good.

He stares at the eggs, then at himself, then at the royal griffin bursting from the treeline with a screech and a snap of it’s _equally_ shiny beak.

Well. _Fuck._

Distantly, he notes that it was a female. Some quick, truly inspiring detective-work later, he draws to the conclusion that it's probably a mother. In particular, that it's the mother of the eggs right behind him.

Huh.

White noise muffles the world around him; panic and pant-pissing terror dampening as his brain struggled to keep up with the whirlwind of emotion coursing through him. Jaskier was acutely aware of the loud thumps of his racing heart, wetting his dry lips with a swipe of his tongue as his fingers stumbled over the strings of his lute-- desperate for some form of comfort as the monster inched closer, a demonic keen lodged in her throat. His eyes slip to a close, a deep breath stuttering through his windpipe as he drops his head to rest against the nest.

Lute. Music. Home. Safe; he wants to feel _safe_.

Wobbly fingers pluck at the strings of his lute, and the royal griffin ahead halts. A warning clicks through her beak, beady eyes transfixed on the instrument in his hands. The motion flowed over his thoughts like oil, slipping through his ears as he struggles to hold the instrument closer to his chest. 

Safe. Safe was Geralt's hair haloed by the fire-light. Safe was Roach's whinnies along the dirt-roads. Safe was bubbly ale in the tavern, bard-song filling the air between them all.

Jasker's safety was, in fact, still up on the mountain-- staring out over the trees while he got pecked to pieces by a hungry catbird.

Cornflower blue flick from the lute strings to the monster, watching as the feathers on the back of her neck slowly stilling as his stiff fingers strummed an idle melody. He’s going to die. He’s going to die, and he’s going to die a semi-famous bard that wasted ten years following around a witcher that didn’t even want him in the first place.

A deep bitterness welled up in his chest, threatening to choke him as tears stung at the corners of his eyes. Ten years of loyalty and he got treated like a piece of shit lying on the road; stepped on and kicked away. He eyes the griffin, ignoring the steady thump of his calming heartbeat as he took in the missing wads of feathers and scars lining her chest-- too neat to be wargs, too closely spaced to be nekkers and too ridged to be a sword.

It was the perfect size to be made by talons-- hooked and then raked down skin. The talons were large, bigger than her own, and he felt his eyebrow twitch.

Fuck, even the animal kingdom was filled with assholes.

Years from now, Jaskier will write a song about this moment; the moment he had a crucial lapse of judgement that changed his life.

Jaskier felt his fingers dance along the strings of his lute, already feeling the swirling vortex of rage permeate his skin as he glared at the ground. He grunted through his nose, then leveled the griffin across from him with a knowing stare. “You too, huh?”

The griffin blinks.

The bard leans back, jerking his head back to the mate-bereft nest behind him. “Getting shafted by your decidedly male companion, whomst then ravages your treasures and promptly escapes off into the sunset, leaving you _alone_ , like you’re a piece of _rotten egg with a side of moldy bacon bits!_ ”

His lute strings let out a protesting screech as Jaskier plucks just a tad too harshly in his anger, his eyes growing wide as his nails dug into the polished wood.

The earth quivers as the griffin wanders closer, cautiously eyeing him whilst a low, pained warble slips out of her throat. Her gaze shifts from the bard to the countless gouges littering her haunches before, finally, returning to the eggs sitting innocently behind him. Jaskier nods sympathetically, as if he has a single goddamn clue what the fuck she’s saying. He _thinks_ she's saying something about raising her children alone-- but he's not too sure, considering they're... you know, not even hatched yet. 

“Well, I’d say you’re doing a _lovely_ job, madam. Truly, your feathers reflect the ocean’s blue gaze and the struggles you have surmounted and overcome. Your husband, wretched his name and title may be, didn’t deserve a creature such as yourself! Surely, griffins fall from the air to gaze upon your splendor!”

She expels a blast of warm air through her nose, powerful muscles uncoiling as she climbs back into her nest-- curling protectively around her eggs. She settles her head down next to the bard’s, breath ruffling through soft brown locks as a soft huff slipped out of her.

"No, no, nooo, don't say that about yourself! Isn't motherhood itself truly the grandest of all professions? It is a path only taken by the strongest of us, so don't you doubt yourself for a second my be-feathered comrade in spite! We're in this together now, living and surviving for the sole fact that it fucks the opposition over and, hopefully, makes them cry into a pint of ale."

She looks, dare he say… _flustered_.

Jaskier’s chatting up a griffin.

_Nice._

Well, he can’t particularly move anytime soon, so he might as well enjoy the company while it lasts. His teeth chattered noisily against each other in the cold, still keeping a steady rhythm of melodies coming from his lute-- too afraid to stop in fear that she’ll wring his neck off his shoulders. “Now, milady, may I interest you in the tale of Geralt of Rivia? Particularly, in the tale that describes him as an absolute mongrel of a man with the emotional width of a spoon and twice the steel?”

She _chortles_ , puffs of warm air that soothed the goosebumps on the back of his neck. Abruptly, Jaskier choked back an agonized shout as the griffin lifted him into the nest, jostling his injured leg as the stoned wedged deeper into his foot. Through the haze of pain and black dots filling his eyes, he felt the griffin’s warm skin press into his back; the protective shroud of her wing settling over him like a blanket as a rumbling purr warbled through the air.

_Hooooooooooooooooly--._

The monster rests her head between him and the eggs, staring at him with lazy red-rimmed eyes as the ominous glow of its amber gaze lit up the space between them.

_\--fuuuuuuuuuuck._

Jaskier nearly chokes, gulping down the panic lodged in his windpipe as the hollow twinges of pain faded. Shaking the last traces of fear out of his ears, the bard slips easily back into his usual entertaining self. face lighting up with his wry grin and a playful strum of strings.

“Very well, that’s a yes if I’ve ever seen one! Now imagine, if you will, a mountainous man with golden eyes and snow-kissed hair walking into lonesome ol’ me’s inn-- for that, is where our tale begins…”


	2. Arktyczny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier has the worst luck ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> u guys are so sweet i love all of u, thank u so much

“Twig, I swear to the gods, you will _spit that out_ or so _help me--_ ”

Said monster huffs, then abruptly drops the stick from her mouth. She keens sulkily, eyeing the walking stick with wide black pupils as her tail whips to-and-fro behind her.

Gods, now she's _whining_.

Jaskier runs his hand down his face, groaning into his palm. “Are your ears perhaps stuffed with feathers? I’ve told you countless times that I _need_ that, thank you very much. Now leave it alone and, for the love of all that is sacred, let me take a piss in peace.”

Grumbling, the massive griffin’s head drops, tail practically dragging on the ground.

Great, now he feels guilty.

...Damn.

Biting back a sigh, Jaskier buttons up his pants and limped over to pick up the glorified tree-branch. Hissing as his foot twinged beneath the slightest touch of grass, he hobbled back towards Twig, settling himself down on the rim of her nest as she fussed over the chirping hatchlings.

Leaning over proves to be a mistake as the scent of blood and raw meat wafted up his nose. Gagging, Jaskier barely manages to choke back the vomit bursting up his throat. “Twi-- good lord almighty, the fuck are you feeding them-- wait, is this another deer? Twig, my beautiful girl, what have I told you about feeding them _inside_ the nest? How would you feel if I ate a griffin in here, huh?”

Raising her head, Twig levels him with a deadpan stare. She warbles, pointedly staring at the scraps of berries littering the ground from his breakfast.

“That is entirely different.”

Twig snorted.

“Don’t you sass me, Twig, I’m the one with opposable thumbs. You can’t even hold a cup, much less clean up after yourself.”

She clicks her beak in a sequence of, admittedly, unnervingly coherent sounds. Jaskier hummed, nodding along empathetically.

“I have no idea what you said, but I think it had something to do with tossing me off the cliff.”

With an alarmingly human roll of her eyes, the monster carves out a wad of meat and fling sit at him. Jaskier recoils as the hunk of venison slaps against his cheek, leaving thick trails of red to drip down his neck. “Well,” he starts off wryly, shuddering in revulsion as the blood slips under his shirt collar. “Someone’s woke up a bit on the wrong side of the bed.”

Mourning the loss of his favourite doublet’s chastity, he shrugs it off in order to neatly fold it and throwing it on a make-shift clothing rack he’d pieced together out of sticks. Idly, he notes to give it a _very thorough_ wash when he gets back to civilisation. 

Twig burps behind him.

Oh, gods. He knows what that means.

“Twig, not right next--.”

Without further ado, the griffin coughs up a mixture of stomach acid and mashed venison before promptly regurgitating it into the hatchlings throats.

Jaskier gags, hand bracing against his stomach as he abruptly turns away. “G-good _gods_ , Twig. At least do me the favor of pretending to be civilized.” The only answer that he gets is a whip of her tail and the stinging pain that erupts on the back of his head.

He rubs his scalp with a hiss. “Ouch. Tetchy today, aren’t you?”

Twig straightens up after a while and, after settling her children back to sleep, turns her head to Jaskier in order to carefully nudge his injured leg. He rests a comforting hand on her beak, struggling to his feet as she helped support his weight. “Yes, yes-- trust me, I know. I need to head back down to get this treated, or else my entire foot is going to get lopped off. How long have I been here for again? Two days?”

Twig hums, before shaking her head.

“Three days?”

She rolls her eyes.

“A _week_?”

She sighs.

“Sorry, I didn't realise asking for a number was _such_ a task for you. So. A week and a bit. Brilliant. That means they’re absolutely going to chop my foot right off when I get down there and call it a day.” Jaskier feels absolutely too calm about this. He’s going to turn into a pirate. He’s going to get a _stick leg_. Those merciless healers are going to saw his foot off and turn it into mincemeat-- or whatever else they turn feet into.

He shudders.

Fuck, he bets they'll turn it into a pie. And here he was, thinking Geralt's _filling-less pie_ comment was the worst thing he'd heard.

Oh shit.

_Geralt._

“Melitele's _tits_ , Twig!” Jaskier’s eyes widen in abject horror. “Oh no. What if _Geralt’s_ down there?”

At the sound of the name, Twig hisses and her hackles rise. Jaskier hushes her with a glare, and a panicked wave of his arms, “Oh, shush you! If anyone’s meant to be panicking, it’s _me_. You know, the bard that was his best friend before he abruptly _threw_ me out the door? You know, _that_ bard? ”

The moment passes and, with it, Twig’s feathers smooth over and she fixs him with a dead stare. He shifts uncomfortably.

“Okay so,” Jaskier grumbles, “Yes, he’d kill you if he saw you. _But_. Think of how _mortified_ I would be if he saw me like this.”

She makes a show of scanning his appearance, eyes lazily going over the bloodied pants, rugged boots and the tattered undershirt he’d resorted to wearing after his doublet finally gave up on him. After a couple more awkward seconds pass, Twig just turns away and flies off-- presumably to go hunt.

Jaskier splutters as the dirt whirls up around him, spitting out a wad of mud that caught his open mouth. “Thanks for nothing, you fucking bird!”

* * *

It was a day later that Jaskier put his (unstabbed) foot down, and steeled himself for the journey back to town.

Twig, being the gracious and most auspicious host that she absolutely is, seemed to understand him innately. With little fuss and no fanfare, she swept him off his feet to fly him to the very edges of the forest-- where they could see distant pillars of black smoke billowing from the silhouettes of chimneys on the brightening horizon.

He feels… sad, really. He spent a week and a half up on this peak, surrounded by Twig's family and the bright glint of a million stars. Out in the cold. Freezing. In pain. Surrounded by predators. Bleeding out.

Huh.

...Okay, so maybe he won't miss it as much as he thought.

Jaskier stops at the edge of the treeline, glancing back with a deep-seated sorrow at the one thing that he'd _actually_ miss.

Twig.

She stares back at him, a knowing gleam in those intelligent eyes of hers. She slinks out of her poised crouch, all coiled muscle and scarred flesh and deadly grace, before coming to a stop in front of him. She gives the hand holding his lute a gentle nudge, before raising her head until it’s level with his.

He never took the time to really… _look_ at her. Not truly.

You know, pass the fact she was a fucking _griffin_.

If Geralt was an unstoppable force, then Twig is an immovable object. She stands taller than most houses, with a pair of wings that could sunder the sky and eclipse the earth beneath its shadow. Her claws gleamed a dark crimson red, a permanent reminder that this is a _huntress,_ a creature whose dominion in the sky is unmatched and unchallenged. He stares into the amber eyes of an apex predator, and he _hurts_.

“Y-you--,” He perseveres through the harsh knot tied in his throat, giving her a wobbly smile, “You take care of yourself now, you hear? When I wander up this mountain again, I better see you here, raising those lovely children of yours.”

Twig hums, a throaty rumble that shook the air. 

“I-I mean it, you know,” Jaskier chokes out, reaching out to run his fingers through her feathers, “No dying allowed until I see some grandkids out of those trouble triplets of yours, alright?”

She leans over, looming like a goddess' hand, then presses the crest of her beak against his forehead. Twig breathes out through her nostrils, twin puffs of warm air swirling out and twisting in the space between them. Jaskier brows crease together, and he wraps his arms around her-- stretching as far as he humanly can.

It’s strange, really, how the thing that tried to kill him has become such a close friend. Perhaps Jaskier just has a knack for loving dangerous creatures, between witchers and witches and griffins.

Idly, he wonders what he’ll run into next.

Probably bandits. No, wait- _definitely_ bandits.

Oh fuck, maybe he shouldn't leave after all.

...Nevermind, he smells like balls. He wants a bath.

When Twig finally pulls back, and Jaskier beams at her. “I’ll come back,” he promises, because of _course_ he would, “I’ll come back with gifts and food and entire ballads to woo your talon-y socks off! Trust me, sickness nor injury and not even an _army_ could keep me from you all for long.”

He smiles warmly as a chortle erupts from her throat. After a moment of staring between the two of them, Twig gives him a final, encouraging nudge of her head before taking off into the dawn’s sky.

Watching her blue feathers and tawny skin fade into nothing, Jaskier feels something he hasn’t felt in two weeks.

Happiness.

* * *

By the time Jaskier manages to limp his way into town, night has fallen.

The remorseless wind strokes icy fingers down the holes in his clothing, chilling every inch of him as his dragging foot gradually grew number and number as the sky dipped from the endless shades of blue into a pitch black. Not that he's complaining though, he's always enjoyed looking up at the moon.

Running on a mixture of desperation, thirst and the need for a gods-damned _bath_ , the bard set a relentless pace towards the glowing hearth lights. His stomach rumbled as the smells of seasoned meats and strong ale drifted down the dirt-covered streets, breathing in deeply through his nose to savor the scents.

Don’t get him wrong, Twig and her little troublemakers were lovely. But he missed _baths_. And _food_. _Good_ food.

Jaskier sighs in relief as he finally found his way to the inn, shoving his way through the door as the fire’s warmth buffeted against his ice-cold face. His fingers shook, the tips already an alarming shade of purple, and his shoulder smacks into the door-frame as he leans against the wall. Around him, the tavern is alive with the sounds of laughter and singing, a familiar cacophony that eased the tension building in his shoulders.

Fucking _finally_.

His hazy eyes pick up on the innkeeper discreetly steps towards him, a robust arm wrapping around Jaskier’s waist while the stocky man helped carry and settle him down by the fire. Words came out of his mouth, and Jaskier just stared at his soundless lips, swaying listlessly on the wooden bench until the cold began to seep out of his bones. Time passes by Jaskier in a flurry of chattering teeth and concerned patrons until, at last, his brain finally caught up to his eyes as a barmaid knelt down in front of him.

“Sir,” she prods him gently, a bowl of soup in her small dainty hands, “Eat, please.”

It was through sheer strength of will that Jaskier doesn't drop the bowl when she passes it to him. He sips at the liquid, sighing as the warmth settles in his belly. He manages to put the bowl down and, with a grand smile at the barmaid, slips off the table and faints.

Damn. 

His poor lute didn't deserve that.

* * *

The town he had collapsed in was a good sort, evidently. Barefield, he believes it's called?

Eh, it's _somewhere_.

The innkeeper had carried him up into the room behind the kitchen and warmed him up as best as he could using the furnace in the backroom. The tavern-goers, bless their wee souls, picked up his scattered belongings and left it at the door.

Honestly, Jaskier thought chivalry was dead, but here he is. An entire gods-damned town, just chock-full of it.

The apothecary owner dropped by his room until he was better, feeding him wads of herbs and putting poultices over the swollen injury in his foot. He could’ve kissed her when she said that he would be fine, no amputation necessary, regardless of the fact that she was older than his grandfather.

He spends his time recovering and playing songs by the tavern’s fire-place. Bawdy tales of past conquests, inspiring fables of knights and dragons-- anything that could keep the spirits high and the drinks even higher. If the innkeeper noticed that Jaskier slipped half of his earnings into his donation jar at the end of the night, he didn’t breathe a word of it.

It was after his final check-up that the relative peace shattered into splinters. Violently.

 _Bombastically_.

Through the gaps in the walls, he could hear conversation lazily drift in the tavern from outside. He nearly choked as Geralt’s familiar grunts were accompanied by the innkeeper’s soft warnings.

“I know we ain’t got much, White Wolf, but i’s all we got. I can give ye’ a roof for a couple nights ‘n a good spot in the stable for the horse, but all’s the coin I can spare is twenty-five crowns-- ‘n even that’s donated from a bard.”

“...I’ll take it.”

“She’s a big ‘un, lad. Wings big ‘nuff to block out the sun. Ye’ sure?”

“Hm.”

“Fine, jus’ be careful out there, eh? She ain’t called Skyterror f’ nothin’.”

The voices fade away as the knock-out brew finally took effect. Jaskier feels panic block up his windpipe and a heart stopping terror lance through his veins, burning like molten iron as the he fights to sit up. There’s only one monster in those damned mountains they could be talking about, only one thing that could be as big and dangerous as they've described, and oh gods-- she doesn't even bother the town. She hunts in the forest, she doesn't bother with civilization and the towns-- nononono, _Twig---_ he needed to get up-- needed to get up and warn her-- and oh god, what about the hatchlings-- no she can’t die--

He'd promised. He'd promised to go back. He still needs to see her and give her the ribbon he bought she can't just _die_ \--

He groans as his muscles go lax against his will. He rolls out of the bed, fingers reaching out towards the door. He can do this, he _can--_

He can't.

Jaskier slips under the tide of sleep, listening to the sound of fading hoof steps outside the tavern door. He dreams and it's to the memory of red-rimmed eyes, glowing amber in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why am i writing more for this. why is this getting plot. whAT'S HAPPENING


	3. Dusza Związana

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Between the whole griffin family (plus honorary member, Jaskier), they -collectively- utilize five brain cells.
> 
> Twig is the proud owner of all of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3 <3

Jaskier had always fallen in love with things too easily.

Bits and pieces of his heart lay scattered over the Continent, embedded in the bedsheets of pretty barmaids and handsome blacksmith sons and all the friends he’s made between. Every person he fell into bed with, he loved- fleetingly, perhaps, but he _loved_ them nonetheless. He loved their gasping breaths and their gentle fingers: loved the way they brushed the hair out of his eyes and held onto him like he was worth the world.

Of course, he just hadn’t fucking realized that tendency extended to massive bird-cat hybrids, too.

Riding out on some black-maned gelding that he’d bribed out of the stable-boy at dusk wasn’t something Jaskier was expecting to do _at all._ Doing that, alone at night, after nearly dying from hypothermia a couple days ago was practically unthinkable. But, lo-and-behold, here he was.

Doing the unthinkable and trying to out-monster-hunt the best monster-hunter on the _Continent_.

Lovely.

“Fucking witchers,” he hisseS under his breath, hunching over in the way he’d seen Geralt ride, “Fucking griffins _._ Fuck-fuck-fuck. Please, Destiny, take a big fat shit on my tombstone- it’ll be _faster_.”

The horse beneath him snorts, ears swiveling. Jaskier laid a soothing palm on his neck, rolling his eyes, “Not you. You’re fine. You know, I like you already- I think I’m going to name you Daisy.”

‘Daisy’ grunts, one of his hooves hitting the ground as the horse cranes his head back to level him with a scorching glare.

“Okay so,” Jaskier leans back, wincing at the baleful look. “So not Daisy. That’s fine. What about, uh… Buttercup? Dandy? Orchid? Ah-hah! perhaps the lovely Rose is more to your liking?”

The gelding just whips his head back around, mane slapping the bard’s face as his hair got caught up in Jaskier’s open mouth. Sputtering indignantly, the man barely had time to tighten his grip on the reins before the horse lurched back into motion with _relish_.

“Fuck! You know what? Bugger it, I should just name you Geralt, you absolute fucking arse!”

The world sucks, too.

...This horse sucks.

Everything sucks.

_Fuck._  
  


* * *

  
  


Truth be told, Jaskier has no idea what he's was going to do _when_ he gets there. 

He's probably going to do something stupid and heroic that’ll get him killed- which was, really, just par the fucking course. He’d been _unbelievably_ lucky already, considering that he was riding out at night into monster-infested territory when he couldn’t see jack-shit. He's actually... a little startled by the lack of monsters on this side of the mountains, actually. Even during the Dragon Hunt, there'd been monsters and horrors plaguing the path. In comparison, this was laughably easy. To make it even easier, the moon was on _full_ beam tonight-- which is strange, because he could've swore that it was a crescent moon last night, not a full one...

...Oh well. Don't question it.

Focus on the bright side! Like, how he hasn't died yet, or how he's going to see Twig again! _Yay!_

Maybe Geralt _won't_ turn him into a kebab!

Which is, honestly, very unlikely, but it's a very motivating sentiment!

The gelding, a truly massive and sturdy horse built for mountain climbing, was a blessing. He's had little trouble navigating the terrain thus far-- even managing to save Jaskier’s life when he had tried to dismount over a cliff-side. Like a moron. A _blind_ moron.

Not his most glorious moment, not gonna lie.

Oh well, Jaskier could see the nest's cliff already, so it would only be a couple hours longer before the sun started rising. The moon was falling from the sky quickly-- too quickly for his liking. As soon as the sun began its ascent, Geralt would waste no time in packing up camp, hopping on Roach, then promptly _beheading_ Twig.

He was efficient like that. A true time-keeper.

Jaskier’s grip tightened.

Yeah-- no. Not happening, thanks.

He has to do this carefully. Geralt, for all his cruel words, was still his dearest friend and protector. Jaskier didn't have any intentions of hurting the witcher, whether that was physically or by tarnishing his reputation with a failed contract. The only problem with that was the fact that the man needed to present proof of the deed and, _unfortunately,_ that was usually a decapitated head.

Now, he might not be a fucking doctor, but he’s _fairly_ sure Twig can’t live without her head. 

This whole stupid contract was a load of shit. Twig didn’t even _do_ anything- he should know, because he was literally there!- because she can’t fly too far from her hatchlings. She keeps to the mountains, feeds off the deer and wargs and the occasional highwayman, the damned griffin didn’t even so much as look at the township. But, of course, that doesn’t matter. 

Twig existed. That was reason enough to kill her.

Which is _dumb_.

Once, Jaskier would’ve lauded their forethought. Great! Another dead monster, nothing wrong with that! One less problem in this incredibly shitty, incredibly scary predatory world! Possibly would’ve written a song about the innkeeper’s keen intellect, lovely barmaid and then toasted the witcher for a job well done.

Now, he just…

He feels guilty.

How many creatures had he celebrated the death of? How many mothers, with children and hatchlings and _family_ , did Jaskier write songs about that were just trying to scrape by? How many families has he watched Geralt _rip apart?_ Maybe Jaskier was just being an idiot, but he couldn’t help thinking that-- that maybe he wasn’t as bloodless as he thought he was.

He knows there are bad monsters out there. Ones driven by bloodlust and cursed to a life of endless hunger; ones that are a _mercy_ to put down. But then he remembers small baby griffins, begging for hugs, and something twists painfully in his chest.

Humming ‘Toss A Coin To Your Witcher’ leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

...Damn.

* * *

“Hey, Twig-- oof!”

When Jaskier shows up in the clearing, Twig leaps out of her nest and tackles him with a happy click of her beak. She hops off quickly, helping him back up to his feet before the massive griffin grabs him by the back of her doublet-- hoisting the bard up into the air as she trots back to the nest.

Jaskier grunts as he's promptly dropped in the midst of a swarm of mini-Twigs. “Girls!” He laughed as one of them- Rose, he notes affectionately- jumps up into his arms, while another- Dipper, of course, how could he forget that little face?- nestles into his lap. "Awww," the bard pressed a kiss to his beak, "And, of course, the handsomest boy in the world!" The last climbed up his back and, with a happy squawk, curled up on his head. That's Alice. She always was an absolute fucking _diva._

His horse stood by the treeline, hooves stomping as he pulled at his reins. After a couple moments pass, the gelding begins to settle down- dilated black eyes easing back to normal.

See, even _Geralt the Bastard Horse_ likes the griffin family!

Twig curls up around him, propping her head up on the rim of the nest while she stares out into the trees- cutting through the darkness with a piercing glower. “Oh Twig, you have no idea how worried I was! You wouldn’t believe it; I was like a true knight on my way here. Traveled all night, not a single drop of water, whilst braving the woodlands on my brave steed--!”

She interrupts him with a huff, turning back to give him a stinging peck on the forehead.

“Son of a--” Jaskier scowls, waving her beak away as he rubs at the blooming bruise, “No respect! Here I was, ready to save your lives, and this is the thanks I get--"

Oh. Oh yeah, that's right.

Oh shit, it's down. "Twig! Twig we needed to move, like, _yesterday_.”

Twig blinks.

"Yes, I _know_ ," The bard grumbles. "Don't look at me like that. Stop that! It was absolutely, not at all, not in the single-most _bit_ my fault--."

Twig just sighs, looking all the world like a bedraggled mother herding her dumbass children away from their inevitable demise. Jaskier snickers.

Then he realises that's not actually too far from the truth. Jaskier stopped snickering.

Fuck.

The griffin crosses her forearms tidily, her tail swinging in graceful arcs behind her as she stares at Jaskier. _So,_ she almost seems to say. _What did you do this time?_

"Not my fault! I got to the village, safe and sound after fighting my way through hordes of wargs- pitiful beasts, truly didn't stand a chance against me, it was very sad- then turned in for the night at the end. The innkeeper, so awed by my skills, let me stay for the week in gratitude. For free, of course. Then, after a delightful evening with the barmaid, I saw my greatest rival-- _Geralt of Rivia_. I scared him out of town with a flex of my muscles and everything turned out _so fine--_ "

Twig glowers.

"-Okay, so it was _sort of_ fine--"

Twig _glares_.

"--Okay, so we might _fucking die_ if we don't leave, like, _right now_."

Twig raises her head to the sky, and prays for the mental fortitude to deal with this shit.

"It wasn't my fault! Well, actually... okay so, I might've indirectly paid for said contract, but it was _without_ my permission--"

_Gods fucking damn it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> u guys are so lucky i read the comments, i was this close to mercilessly killing twig and having jaskier red-hood geralt


	4. Przyjaciele

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt arrives, plans are exchanged, and Jaskier just wants to go home.

This is a horrible idea.

“Twig, can we talk about this?”

Said griffin grunts, too busy scanning the sky for hints of black feathers flying between twisting clouds. 

Jaskier shudders, looking nervously between the trees and the steadily rising sun. “It’s not too late to take the kids and then leave, you know! In fact, I highly recommend it!”

Twig just warbles. 

He tries his best to take in deep, patient breaths. In and out. _In_. And _out_. Jaskier’s heart thumps away in his chest like a mad hare, so loud that it echoes in the caverns of his ears and reverberates in his lungs between the white noise muffling his thoughts. He’s panicking-- he is absolutely panicking.

 _Fuck_.

“Twig, I can’t do this. Not so soon. He never wanted to see me again Twig, he--,” Jaskier topples to his knees, hand bunching up the fabric of his tunic as the sky began close in around him. “What if he doesn’t listen? What if he kills,” _(me)_ “the hatchlings anyway?”

It’s too soon. Too soon and too close and he’s not ready to talk or fight or bargain or whatever the fuck else Geralt wants to fucking do--.

He can’t do this. He can’t, he can’t, he _can’t--_.

Jaskier is barely picking his life back up off the floor. He’s coping from losing his best friend, nearly dying, and having his career come to a stuttering _halt_. He’s barely gained a small piece of happiness out of an entire fucking ocean of misery, and he’s going to lose it all because of the same man who broke it in _the first place_ \--.

He barely feels the feathers brushing against the bare skin of his neck. He can’t tell where the ground ends and the sky starts. He can’t tell which way is up or which way to run in, his legs just won’t work and his throat keeps _burning_ and he can feel vomit rising up _\--_.

The slightest touch of coldness against his forehead grounds him again.

Staring into calm amber eyes, Jaskier grabs hold of himself. Twig is here. Twig is _safe_. Twig is alive, and nothing’s going to happen to her. He’s surrounded by happy chirping faces, and there’s a warmth in his belly that wasn’t there before.

He’s okay.

There’s dirt underneath the soles of his boots and the sky is a lovely shade of aubergine. He’s going to be fine. He could run from this, and Twig won’t stop him, and everything could go back to normal if he wanted. He had a choice in that inn. He had a _choice_ in this entire debacle; he didn’t need to be here and she hadn’t forced him to come back in the first place.

He brought himself here. He came for a reason, and he’s not going to give up on it now just because he’s a fucking wimp.

Twig croons, wrapping Jaskier in comfort as he leans into her chest. Soft feathers brush against his nostrils, and he breathes in the familiar smell of iron, pine and _home_.

Right.

He’s got this. He can _do_ this. 

Jaskier straightens up, placing a placating hand on the side of Twig’s beak as she uncoils from her protective huddle around him. He sighs, watching his horse’s ears swivel towards something in the woods. The gelding straightens, whinnying while the bard’s keen eye catches the barest glint of sunlight against steel.

Twig crouches in front of her nest, wings spread wide to hide the hatchlings behind her impressive visage. Jaskier gives her a stiff nod, already feeling the tension line the muscles on his shoulders as he waits.

And waits.

And _waits_.

“...Jaskier?”

Ah, there he is.

The bard’s lips curl. He didn’t hear _anything;_ not even the slightest twitch of a twig to signal his arrival. Really, the White Wolf is on a whole other level of _skilled_ when it comes to prowling about in the grass, like some sort of loony. A handsome loony. 

A _very_ handsome loony.

Well, it’s creepy as shit even if he's good looking but, _you know_ , still creepy. 

“Good morning, Geralt!” Jaskier turns, still cradling Twig’s head in his hands as a winning smile lights up his face. “Superb weather for a hunt, isn’t it?”

* * *

Jaskier feels awkward. Twig feels awkward. Fuck, even the _kids_ feel awkward.

Geralt’s staring-- is he even blinking? Jaskier can’t tell. Maybe they’re just blinking at the same time.

The bard clears his throat and the sound fucking echoes in the silence. Gods, this is so tense, what the fuck--.

“Jaskier. What the fuck.”

Said man blinks, and a lopsided smile appears on his face as he waggles his fingers at the witcher. “Heeeey, Geralt! What are you doing here? Out for a walk? For a snack? Any new stories?”

Geralt just stares at him, eyes flitting between the bard and the massive fucking griffin right next to him. “...Hunting.”

Uh.

That's ominous, but okay.

“Well,” fuck, Jaskier’s voice cracks, fuck fuck fuck fuck-- “I hope you’re not going to kill my dearest, sweetest, cutest fluffy-bun, Twig! You aren’t, right? She’s harmless, just look at her. Absolutely adorable.”

Amber clashes with gold, her dagger-long talons clicking against the stones whilst the razor edge of Geralt’s silver sword glints like an omen in the early light. Twig’s beak glistens with fresh specks of blood, and the witcher’s teeth look too similar to pearly _fangs_ when his lips drew back into a snarl.

Oh yes.

Very cute.

Jaskier felt like he was lodged between two apex predators and, really, it was too early to feel so fucking threatened.

“Well, if you guys are quite done with measuring your _shafts_ against each other, can we get down to business?” The bard leans back into Twig’s chest, feeling the warble vibrate in her chest as she calms at his touch. Geralt raises a brow, and reaches up to grab the hilt of his swords.

Distantly, he wonders if he’ll draw steel or silver.

“Contract. For her. _Move_.”

Oh.

Well. There goes diplomacy.

Jaskier felt Twig tense behind her, the feathers rising as her beak clacked together threateningly. “Geralt,” he warns, hands held out placatingly, “ _Stop_. Let go of the fucking swords before you scare her.”

The witcher growls, taking a step closer as his eyes burn matching holes into the griffin’s head. “Jaskier.”

_“--why is it when I’m in a pile of shit, it’s you- shoveling it--.”_

_“The djinn, the child surprise--.”_

_“-your fault--.”_

_“Jaskier--.”_

_Jaskier._

**_Jaskier._ **

**_J a s k i e r._ **

Oh _hell_ no.

Jaskier steps forward, righteous rage filling up his chest as fury burned in his lungs and scorching wrath made his fists _shake_. This utter cad can't just waltz into _his_ clearing, draw his sword at _his_ family and expect him to just _agree and stand by._ Words roiled in the back of his throat like lightning, sparking at his teeth and pushing against his tongue.

There's a time to be brave, and _this_ is it.

“Geralt, for once in your fucking life, you will shut up and you will _listen to me_.” His breath came out in short puffs of mist, and he felt Twig arch over him protectively as coarse skin brushed against his back.

Geralt froze, his hand stilling.

“You won’t come here and take something that I love away from me. Not again. _Never_ again, you hear me? You left me on that fucking mountain, _you_ left _me_. If you think I’ll let you come back and take her away, I’ll rip your fucking eyes out.”

The witcher’s jaw tenses and his shaking hand- not from fear, but from the effort of fighting against the urge to _purgekillinstincts_ \- settles down at his side. From between clenched teeth, he manages to hiss out a low, " _Fine."_

Oh fuck, it worked.

Jaskier tries to break through the flurry of emotion, listening Twig’s inhales grow more rapid at every passing moment-- building off of his rage and hurt and sheer _energy._ Her claws clacked against the stones restlessly, tail thumping against the earth that left the world _quivering_ , and it was only a matter of time before she attacked--

He needed to calm down, needed to breathe, he needed to ground himself--

He remembers the smooth coolness of Twig’s beak brush against his cheek and, abruptly, the burning anger fades into nothingness. Jaskier wrestles his breathing back under control, shoulders drooping as he closes his eyes, counting to ten until his muscles finally began to relax.

Twig settles, letting a gentle purr hang in the air.

Thank fuck.

The bard opens his eyes with a sigh, and fixS Geralt with a wry smile. “There’s another griffin around here, you know. Twig’s innocent, and you know it. The closest her tracks get to the town is the forest’s edge.”

Geralt let out a rough noise of agreement, jerkily nodding as his hand flexes at his side, “Villagers are scared. Saw a griffin fly overhead on my way here. Big, but not as big as _her_.”

Assessing eyes flick back to Twig, darkening thoughtfully while his brow furrows. Jaskier didn't even fight the snicker that slipped out, “You’re going to get wrinkles.”

The comment makes the witcher’s shoulders ride up, and Jaskier’s almost terrified that he’s going to draw his sword and kill them both.

 _Almost_.

Instead, Geralt breathes out a snort. “Crow’s feet,” he says pointedly, leaning back against the tree behind him with a faint smirk.

The effect is instantaneous. Twig relaxes, birdsong resumes and Jaskier feels a weight lifting off of his chest. “I’ll have you know,” he huffs. “That my skin-care routine fights off both warts _and_ wrinkles, thank you, and you’re not getting any of it!”

The witcher rolls his eyes and then languidly takes a step closer to them. “So,” he rumbles. “Who’s the other griffin?”

Jaskier turns to Twig, and he swore that she was grinning. They both turn back to Geralt, looking more than a tad bit unhinged as the bard started cackling and the griffin started warbling.

“My gloriously terrifying friend, let me introduce to you the scummiest griffin this side of the mountain--.”

* * *

Jaskier was unaware of how he looked at that moment.

He held Twig like she was the grandest treasure in the world, tracing soothing circles into her crest with long, patient fingers. His eyes glimmered in the light, reflecting the sky as they swirled with the countless shades of blue and cyan. Silky strands of chocolate hair drifted into motion at the slightest nudge of the morning’s breeze, and all the roses in the world couldn’t make him look any less _wild_.

Twig stood behind him like a sentinel, a goddess of sky and earth, perched proudly as if she was crafted from the mountain itself. Where Jaskier was the image of steady calm, she moved as if she was a force of _nature_. When she breathed, the trees shuddered. When she moved, the ground quivered. When she screeched, the world trembled. The sky itself surrendered to the push and pull of her wings, while the sun danced on her skin like twisting auburn flames.

They stared at Geralt, two halves of a whole, and something... changed.

It was at that moment, the impossible happened. 

Destiny shifted.

* * *

Twig takes off with an ear-splitting screech, fur rustling in the wind as she cleaves the clouds with her unfurling wings. Soon, vapour trails and fading buffets of warm air are the only things that signal her presence.

Jaskier watches, breath catching as he stared after her in admiration.

He’d never tire of watching her do that, to be honest. There was something both humbling and beautiful in her savage revelry, as if it was in her nature to hunt and to prowl and to be the one in _control_.

Skyterror, indeed.

Their plan was simple, really. Twig would hunt down her former mate, the one terrorizing on the other side of the mountain, and force him to land. Then, they’d kill him and Geralt would take his head as proof. Afterwards, the griffin family would try to relocate.

It was so simple that it was _foolproof_.

Hopefully.

Maybe.

Unless if her mate turned out to be like, fifty times her size.

...Minor details, surely.

Leaning back, the bard lets his gaze drop back down to rest on Geralt’s tense figure at the treeline. Jaskier idly runs his fingers down a hatchling’s spine, letting her curl up against his side as a rumbling purr vibrated against his thigh. 

“You know,” he grumbles, fixing the witcher with an exasperated stare, “I’m not diseased or anything, you don’t need to prance around me like a scared boy who broke his grandmother’s urn.”

A grunt was his only response.

Jaskier sighed. He settled for holding the hatchlings close to his chest, and biding time as they waited for Twig’s return. The silence echoed, and the empty space between them made his chest twinge achingly.

It was an insurmountable gulf, filled with fear of the unknown and the sting of heartbreak. 

He stares down at Rose, watching quietly as she stared back with a soft squawk and bright amber eyes. Jaskier, as much as he hates to admit it, needs to be the strong one for once. He’s hurting and aching and it feels like claws are digging into his chest and ripping out his lungs, but--.

Geralt isn’t good at words. Or just… emotions in general, really. He speaks through actions; through the tension in his shoulders and the slightest softening of his eyes and the smallest twitch of his lips.

The bard risks a glimpse, and watches as Geralt fusses with his potions. To most, the witcher just looks like he’s preparing for the coming fight, making sure his equipment is well-oiled and silver sword glinting.

Luckily, Jaskier isn’t most people.

He sees the way his body turns towards him; the way the witcher’s feet shuffle in the dirt before abruptly settling back down. Geralt’s hand holds the bottle just the barest bit tighter and the glass creaks as it threatens to shatter. Geralt’s fucking _fretting_ and Jaskier thinks it’s _hilarious_.

His heart warms, and something like forgiveness settles in his chest.

In another world, Jaskier wouldn’t forgive so easily. In another world, Jaskier didn’t have Twig or kind innkeepers or loud hatchlings to keep him from going under. In another world, it’s years of festering and alcoholism and picking up the broken pieces of his soul off the floor before he sees Geralt again.

In another world, Fate is crueler.

This isn’t that world.

“Alright,” Jaskier heaves a great big sigh, then gets to his feet. “Stop _twitching_ for Gods’ sake, Geralt. I’m not going to eat you-- but, of course, it’s always on the table if you want it to be.” He wiggles his eyebrows, taking slow, deliberate steps towards the witcher as the small creature in his arms squeaked.

The other man barely twitches, even as the stress slowly rolls out of his shoulders. “Fuck off,” he growls, no true heat behind it. 

Jaskier just laughs, bright and true, as he stops in front of him. “Yes, well. Last time I did that, I was promptly attacked by a griffin, cared for by said griffin, and then immediately adopted by the same griffin. It was quite the adventure, really; maybe I should even write a song about it, hm?”

Blinking slowly, the witcher hummed quietly. “She attacked you?” Molten eyes burned as they skimmed over the bard, looking for injury.

He shrugged. “It wasn’t her fault. I ventured too close to her nest, Twig was just guarding her eggs. Don’t know why she didn’t just kill me, to be quite frank, but I played a song as a final farewell and she just… stopped.”

Geralt eyed him skeptically. “You should know better.” _I'm sorry I wasn't there._

Rolling the kinks out of his shoulders, Jaskier busies himself with cleaning the dirt out of Dipper's feathers. “I don’t have your witchery magic senses, my good friend! I got turned around more than once on the way down, it was actually _good_ that Twig caught me. Without her-- well, not too sure how I would’ve fared.”

He watches as the witcher’s shoulders tense up again, and something like guilt twists in the stiff line of Geralt’s lips.

Fuck.

“Geralt--,” Jaskier cut himself off with a sigh, breathing in before trying again. “For-- oh for fuck’s sakes, stop simpering, would you? I get it, you know. Everything fell apart and Yennefer left you and you felt like you were being set on fire, _I know_. You would’ve hurt anyone in that moment, it was just… it was just lucky that it was me, and not someone else.”

The witcher maintained his stony silence. His eyes bore holes into the dirt, and Jaskier wants to do nothing more than shake him silly.

“It hurt,” the bard admits, running his fingers against the hatchling’s leathery spine. “It hurt a lot and, frankly, I didn’t think I’d ever get over it. But you’re here, and I’m here, and Twig’s here and…” He breathed out slowly. “And I’m okay.”

The clearing settled into a reverent calm, nothing but the soft rustling of leaves and branches filling the air.

Geralt reached out with hesitant fingers, and Jaskier smiled gently as they settled on his shoulders in a strong, firm grip. He tried to ignore how pleasant his palm felt, and how the warmth seeped into his skin through the thin shirt.

“Jaskier. I’m sorry.” _Please don't leave again._

Slowly, as slow and deliberate as he could be, the bard reached up to settle a hand over his. Jaskier watched with bated breath as the witcher flinched at the careful touch before relaxing with a hesitant squeeze of his fingers.

"You’re forgiven.” _Forever and always_ _._

They stare at each other, Geralt’s shoulders dropping, whilst Jaskier felt his heart skip a beat in the midst of nearly losing himself in swirling pools of gold. The world stilled around them and, for a moment, it seemed like if the Fates’ tender sighs floated along the warm breeze.

Jaskier never realised how the witcher's hands were so large and warm. Every touch makes his heart pound and his mind race, and Jaskier suddenly comes to the startling realisation that Geralt is _pretty_. He has hair like spun silver, eyes like gemstones, and Jaskier wants nothing more than to keep him safe. 

Which should be ridiculous, because Geralt could snap him like a twig. But it... Isn't.

Oh gods not _again_ \--.

Then Twig crashes into the ground behind them, a bloody griffin trapped beneath her talons.

“For _fuck’s_ sake Twig.” 

She chortles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you're all wonderful and i dont deserve u all tbh


	5. Przerażenie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A clash between titans, a battle between mothers, and the world waits with bated breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if u guys want a real vibe, listen to slip away by ruelle

“Geralt, _no_.”

“Hm.”

“There are children watching, for gods’ sake. Do you want to ruin Dipper’s childhood? You want to go ahead, and give Rose trauma? What about Alice?”

The witcher turned his face skyward, breathing heavily through his nose. A few seconds pass before, finally, Geralt lowers his sword with a grunt. “Fine. They’re traumatised enough from your damned music.”

Jaskier gaped. “You heinous-- _you take that back!_ ”

“No.”

“You _little_ \--.”

Behind the duo, Twig stood patiently. Her talons dug deep into the griffin’s neck, crimson rivulets running down the mauled and bloodied neck. Weak squawks slip out of the male’s throat, wings pounding against the dirt uselessly, and she promptly shut him up by smashing his head into the ground again.

Jaskier almost feels bad for guy, to be honest.

It was at that moment the sound of beating wings filled the sky. Geralt looked up, body tensed, before he swore violently as a very big, very _angry_ griffin headed for their clearing. “Looks like he had a mate. This is… unpleasant.”

The bard scowled. “Another one? Gods, how many ladies has this bloody cad catfished?”

“Wonder who that reminds me of.”

“Oh, shut _up_.”

Geralt grunted. “She’s big.”

“Well,” Jaskier coughed, choking back the innuendo that was just on the tip of his tongue. “Looks like we found Przerażenie-- _Skyterror_.”

Holy fuck, she’s big.

Swallowing harshly, Jaskier shuddered as the sunlight disappeared behind the length of her wings. Her beak opened, the width of the witcher’s long-sword and twice the length, and a demonic cry echoed in the air as she dived through the clouds. He crouched down, hands clasped over his pounding head as the ear-splitting screech made his vision go blurry.

He felt more than heard Twig respond, a challenging screech that cut the air and made the wind shove against his clothes. Jaskier breathed in shakily, waiting for the black spots to fade as he stumbled back towards the nest. 

The hatchlings. He had to keep an eye on the hatchlings.

Jaskier shook his head clear, stumbling as the ground quivered underfoot. He chanced a look back, gaping as Twig mercilessly started wrenching the male griffin’s head off with her talons. It came loose with an unnerving squelch, spine slipping out of the corpse like a maggot, and she promptly threw it at the monster’s feet.

Time seemed to freeze as the severed head rolled to a stop at her talons. It’s bleed seeped out, staining her claws a foreboding crimson as its glassy eyes stared lifelessly up at her. The griffin nudged at it, quiet warbles slipping out of her throat as the scent of death wafted into the air. Jaskier felt a distant sense of horror weigh heavily in his gut, and guilt manifested itself through the fine tremor of his hands.

Twig smiled prettily, beak shining red.

Geralt slowly drew his sword, matte with oil.

Przerażenie wailed and the remorseless world shook.

* * *

Now, Jaskier isn’t going to fool himself into thinking he’s any use in a proper fight. But really, when it comes to two freakishly large griffins and a fucking _witcher_ , there’s really not much of an option except trying not to die a horrible death. 

He curses the gods for dragging him into this mess.

Dipper whines fearfully, trembling in his arms as Alice hides her face in the crook of his neck. Rose, the bravest of her siblings, glares up at the sky-- angrily snapping her beak whenever something thuds against the nest of sticks.

“Rose, stop that--” Jaskier winced as he heard a particularly agonised screech fill the air. “Shh, it’s okay, it’s _okay_. Twig will be back soon, everything’s going to be fine--.”

He heard Geralt shout out, the sound of silver sliding through flesh, and it took everything Jaskier had to not run to him. He took in deep breaths, steadying himself as his fingers stroked along Dipper’s spine.

Fuck. _Fuck._

How long has this fight been going on for? He can’t even feel his arse anymore, for gods’ sake. Terror made his heart pound in his ears, blood rushing through his veins as he finally noticed the eerie silence behind him. Jaskier swallowed past the fear lodged in his throat and, with the hatchlings carefully herded behind him, risked a peek over the nest’s rim.

His breathing stuttered.

Geralt was on his knees, another empty potion in his hands as he panted-- Swallow, judging by the scent of celandine and spirits wafting from the bottle. Red poured from a wound on his head, his eyes black as sin as twin slits of gold slowly went back into focus. 

Twig, bless her, was standing in front of him like a guardian. Her blood flowed in rivers down her arms, chest, legs-- her _everywhere_ , really. Her beak was chipped and blooded, talons clicking against the ground restlessly while she held her wings proudly out behind her.

And, evident by Przerażenie shaking breaths, they’d given as good as they got. Her tail hung limply, dragging against the dirt as the twisted appendage flopped uselessly against the ground. The ragged wounds on her neck dripped with a relentless vengeance, breath coming out as harsh rasps that echoed in the moment of stillness.

Then Rose clambered out of the nest and _charged_.

Before he knew what he was doing, Jaskier vaulted out after her and fucking sprinted. “Twig! Man overboard, turn _around!”_

Przerażenie’s focus honed in on the hatchling, and something feral sharpened her gaze into swords. A surge of strength erupted in her broken body and she shoved Twig out of the way with a mocking chortle, beak opened wide as it turned to the baby griffin. The mother lets out a startled squawk, collapsing in her exhaustion as wide amber eyes stared in horror.

Rose was going to die.

Jaskier gritted his teeth, grabbing the lute on his back with a vice grip as he finally, _finally_ , caught up to that stupid adorable idiotic hatchling at last. He skids to a halt in front of her, Przerażenie beak glinting with gore and death as she towered over them-- ready to feast.

Jaskier thinks the fuck not.

He reeled back, gathering every ounce of strength into his limbs before slamming his lute into the griffin’s face with a shout. The instrument broke in half at the force of the blow, bits of wood lodging deep into Przerażenie’s eye as she reeled back with a glass-shattering scream. Jaskier didn’t stop, only wrapping the lute’s strings around his clenched fist as he swung onto her back-- looping the string around the monster’s neck.

Never before had he been so glad that he bought silver-threaded wires.

Jaskier pulled and pulled and _pulled_. He held on, feeling the flesh give way beneath as the makeshift garrote buried deeper into her neck. The bard heard the telltale thumps of Przerażenie’s wings and, with a detached finality, he watched the ground disappear beneath them as they ascended higher and higher into the clouds.

Ah.

Well, damn.

The griffin rolled and caterwauled, the sounds echoing in his ears and vibrating amongst the clouds as she tried to dislodge him. Jaskier shouted as he felt the string begin to dig into his hands, tears stinging the corners of his eyes as he clung tighter onto the beast’s back. “Won’t you just fucking,” he grunted as she lurched forward, his head colliding painfully with the back of her head. “Die already, for fuck’s sake!”

Przerażenie let out a threatening gurgle, and Jaskier could imagine the blood spurting out of her mouth as the wire buried into her windpipe. The wings holding them aloft gave a final flap, stuttered and then halted altogether.

“Oh,” Jaskier blinked. “Oh bugger.”

Then they dropped like a stone.

* * *

Geralt stumbled upright, exhaustion weighing his bones down like iron as his eyes scanned the sky desperately. He felt his fist tremble, the bottle in it smashing into splinters as horror clogged up his throat like ash. Glass rained from his trembling hand like rain, clinking to the ground with a decisive finality as silence reigned.

“Jaskier.”

Fuck.

“Jaskier!” 

_Fuck._

The witcher felt his nails dig into the leather of his gloves, jaw clenching and unclenching as he stared up at the sky. Geralt stared and stared and _stared_ , looking for a sign of something- of _anything-_ that the bard was still alive. For a second, he swore he saw a figment of black against the clouds- his imagination surely- but then he saw it again, and again, and then relief that filled his chest nearly sent him down on his knees again.

He could just barely hear the bard screaming his lungs off as Przerażenie tried to fling him off of her back and, honestly, the sound would’ve made him cry if he was a lesser man.

That crazy son of a bitch was still alive. Holy _shit_.

Then he remembers that Jaskier was also five hundred feet in the air, clinging to the back of a dying griffin. And now the bard was… falling? Oh fuck, he’s falling. 

**_Fuck_** **.**

He looked at the weakened griffin, writhing in the dirt beside him, and felt his face twist into a snarl. Geralt faced skyward again, watching as Jaskier clung to Przerażenie with a desperation that can only come with being certain death, and swallowed harshly. He fished out his last Tawny Owl, and stared into the violet liquid.

He felt like a traitor for even thinking about what he’s about to do.

Geralt closed his eyes, remembering the vicious cyclone of talons and feathers that the monsters turned into. If Jaskier’s monster was one of the biggest royal griffins he’d ever come across, then Przerażenie- _Skyterror,_ he thinks reverently- was a goddess amongst them all. He breathed out slowly, then limped his way towards the grounded griffin’s body and reached out for her head.

He stared into burning pools of amber, and distantly wonders if that’s what barmaids see when they look into his own.

“I don’t like you,” Geralt manages to grunt out. Then, he wrenched her beak open and poured the potion down her throat. “But you’re the only one who can save him now.”

Something like respect glimmered in her eyes. It shouldn’t make his heart feel as warm as it does.

Geralt pointed at the sky. “ _Go_.”

Twig twisted into motion, a whirlwind of blood and feathers as she climbed the air.

* * *

This griffin doesn’t know what she expected when she nested in these mountains. She mated, she feasted, she laid. Then, her mate left for a hunt and then never came back. She scented him over the peaks, smell entangled with the pheromones of another creature, and she knew that he wasn’t going to come back.

It was an old hurt, but a hurt nonetheless.

She settled back into the motions. Warm the eggs, hunt for food, feed on said, then rest. Over and over, a never ending litany of mindless motion as she stared into the darkened forest. 

Then, she met her fourth child. Of course, she tried to kill him first, but it was necessary at the time.

Things changed.

The eggs hatched and they fell in love with their elder brother. They loved the tune of his sounds, the cheerful dip of his voice and the strange wooden stick in his hands, and they loved _him_. This griffin was glad that her children loved his creations as much as she did, something he called ‘ _music.’_

It sounded magical.

Then, her fourth child gave her another gift; a name. Twig. She learnt his name, “ _Jaskier,_ ” she’d sounded out, beak clicking and clacking, and he let out a happy screech and wrapped his thin arms around her neck.

It felt nice.

Twig was overjoyed when he came back, just like he said he would, and promised to never let him out of her sight again. They were family, tied by fate and song and the magical warmth he carried with him. 

Then, it all comes back to this moment. Her child, falling from the sky, bleeding and helpless and terrified as the ground came _closer_ \--. 

She howls miserably, trying to force her wings into complying. Jaskier is _hers_. The sky can’t take him from her, it _can’t_ and it _won’t_ , because she needs to _protect_ him and _raise_ him and _her body just won’t move--._

She heard the small silver-furred man move towards her. She doesn’t care. She screams Jaskier’s name louder and prayed for a miracle.

Said miracle comes in the form of the man next to her. Twig stares into his soul with scorching eyes, and debates the merits of biting his arm off. 

She doesn’t.

Instead, she breathes out, swallowed whatever he put in her mouth and fought to stand upright. Liquid strength filled her muscles, power flowing through her veins like blood, and Twig bullets up into the clouds with a snap of her wings and a desperate screech of her throat.

Twig continues to beat back the exhaustion already weighing down on her, wings steady as always as she tried to find Jaskier amidst the black spots in her vision and the grey clouds lining the horizon.

She hunts for a bright light in the darkness, then leans forward into a dive as the slightest glimpse of yellow breaks the colourless monotony.

The wind blows against her like water, cutting into the space between her feathers and digging icy fingers deep into the bleeding wounds on her body. Something howls in her chest despite the aches, a relentless scream that yearns to _protect_ as the sky trembles in protest around her.

He’s too far away. He’s going to hit the ground. 

Her son is going to _die_ \--.

No.

Twig trembles, bares her beak and _twists_ \-- the air whistling around her in torrents as she cuts through it like an arrow. Her child. _Hers._

Jaskier turned to face her, terror and relief warring on his face as he reaches out towards her with bloodied fingers--.

The earth is so _close--_.

Twig nearly sobbed.

She screams in desperate defiance at the rising ground, flaring her wings out behind her as she reaches out with her talons--barely managing to snag Jaskier’s torso. Twig tucks her head against her chest, wrapping her wings against her son’s fragile body as she keens gently into his hair. She presses her beak into his neck, shoulders, forehead-- anywhere that she could reach as he coughed and sobbed into her feathers.

For a moment, it’s just them. Protector and protected. Mother and child. Loved and love.

Jaskier stares up at her, water and wind swirling in a gaze of endless blue as dried blood sticks to soft skin. Twig stares back, heart thumping calmly in her chest, and she tries to project _love_ and _safety_ and _peace_ as she cradles him closer in her wings. She tries to promise him that nothing will hurt him ever again, that she'll keep him safe forever and always, because they're _family_. 

She watches him close his eyes and relax in her hold. She smiles.

All she's ever wanted was to protect.

  
•••  
  


Twig crashes into the earth, then all she feels is the crack of a million bones and the love warming her heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dont hurt me pls


	6. Pozostaje

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the end, happy endings are made out of blood and sweat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've come to the startling realisation that if i actually planned this so it was set pre-dragon that this could've been so much cooler
> 
> im so upset with myself now guys
> 
> in other news, my readers want to throw me overboard and steal my fic and i dont blame u guys at all, im so sorry

Jaskier wakes up, and the world is quiet.

The absent birdsong, the fluttering leaves and the howling wind; gone, replaced instead by a howling cavernous silence that drummed in his ears. He feels warmth around him, the familiar brush of feathers and leather, and breathes in the familiar scent of iron, pine and home. He remembers long nights staring up at the stars, the feeling of small heads butting against his fingers, and he feels safe.

His alarm bleeds out of him, and his eyelids feel like anchors.

The bard hears Twig's soft breaths and doesn't notice the rattling in his lungs or the crack of her bones. He hears Twig, feels safety nestle in his chest, and the world fades back into blackness.

He sleeps.

* * *

Geralt ran through the forest, fist clenched around the Swallow potion’s neck.

He bursted through the trees, then feels the painfully slow heart pumping away in his chest stop.

Twig’s wings were wrapped around herself, faint wheezes and quivering breathes echoing in the silence around them. A lake of blood stained the ground a rusty brown, the griffin’s head slowly untucking from her chest as it fell limply against the dirt. Hazy amber eyes turned to regard him and, with a broken warble, she unfurled her wings. A limp body was cradled in her talons, dripping with muck and gore, chest rising and falling like a heartbeat. Soft brown hair was matted with mud, his clean shirt stained red, and even though his eyes were closed, Geralt was struck with the memory of smiling blue eyes and the strumming of lutes. 

Jaskier. _Jaskier_.

The witcher moved without thought, closing the gap between as he skidded to a halt beside them. Geralt fumbled with the flask, steeling his nerves, before his hand hovered over the bard’s shoulder.

After a lifetime of waiting, he reached down to touch him.

Warm flesh met his palm, slick with sweat and blood while the unconscious man lay prone in the griffin’s gentle hold. Geralt resisted the urge to swipe away the bloodied strands of hair, instead carefully brushing his hands along the bard’s hands and fingers. His heart is barely thumping and the tips of his fingers feel like ice, crimson liquid dripping from the deep cuts before seeping into the dirt. Jaskier's hand was still wrapped in iron, bits of white bone peaking around the razor edge from where it dug deep into his flesh, and the witcher felt dread settle in his stomach.

There was nothing he could do to save his hand. But he was breathing, and _alive_ , and _whole_.

Geralt turned to the monster, and stared.

Twig regarded him with an almost fond gaze, the beat of her heart turning excruciatingly slow as waterfalls of red fell from her flesh and crashed into the earth. She stared down at Jaskier, then turned back to the witcher. He could almost hear the humour in her voice, the way she regarded him and said, _what, do you think I'd let him die?_

Guilt settles in Geralt’s chest, and it feels like fire. He stares at the potion clutched in his hand, then turns back.

The griffin leaned forward, amber stare locking with a golden gaze, as she stared deep into his soul. Geralt knew he shouldn’t have taken that fucking contract; he was about to pass the town over, and then…

And then he smelled the scent of chamomile and buttercups and he couldn’t help that just maybe. Maybe he could see him.

All he’d wanted was to check on him. He didn’t deserve the closure, not after the things he said and the things he had done, but he just wanted to _see him_ and instead he _fucked it up again_ and now the idiot’s _griffin_ is fucking _dying_ and oh gods, this is going to _break Jaskier in half--._

He’d thought that, just maybe, he could’ve been the hero that Jaskier sung about. That, just maybe, he’d do something worthwhile.

He kneels there, and watches a monster with more kindness in her _talon_ than most _humans_ , dying slowly but holding Jaskier like he's worth a million diamonds and all the stars, moons and suns in the sky.

Geralt feels like a fucking joke.

He should stick to monsters. Witchers don’t get happy endings, they just get _endings_. They battle and they fight and they die, and that’s all they’re good for. Geralt thought he’d stopped wanting things he couldn’t have _decades_ ago, when Renfri’s ghost and ' _Butcher'_ echoed in his footsteps, but then Jaskier had come along and--.

And it felt like he knew what humanity was like.

He feels old. He feels bitter. He feels angry and foolish because he’s not a hero, he’s not a good man, he’s not even a _man--._

In the end, he’s nothing but a witcher and nothing’s more of a curse than _that_ \--.

He just wanted to try and be _more._ He just wanted to stop killing and stop stabbing and stop _bleeding--._

Something smooth and cold pressed against his neck, and Geralt startled back into reality. He tensed up as the griffin’s beak rested against his shoulder, barely managing to control his instincts to _kill-slay-protect_ and keep his hands on Jaskier’s shoulders. The air was heavy with the bittersweet scent of _love_ and _care_ that hung in the air, and it weighed down on him like a blanket.

Twig pulled back, speaking more with her wizened eyes than Geralt had ever communicated in his lifetime. With steady fingers that didn’t betray his emotions, he signed _Axii_ into the air between them.

He poured the Swallow potion into her open mouth before he could regret it.

The feedback thrummed and the griffin slowly slumped to the ground, barely blinking as she stared up at him hazily. Geralt refused to acknowledge the pained twist of his heart at the sight.

He felt the barest nudge of _something_ in his head, so careful and loving in its thoughts. The witcher tightened his jaw, turning a burning gaze towards Twig as her warm eyes dug a hole deep into his chest.

_Protect my son._

Fuck.

Geralt knelt down by her head, palm resting on the monster’s beak. “He doesn’t need me,” he rasped out, voice hoarse and shaky. “He’s better on his own.”

 _Protect_ , she insisted before Twig’s body shuddered, something cracking along her spine. _Protect my_ **_child_** _._

The witcher exhaled, trying to think of how to tell her that he’ll only make it _worse_ . He had always made things worse, and he’ll just get Jaskier _killed--._

_Stop._

The word echoed in his mind like a command, echoing off his psyche’s cavernous walls. He stopped.

_Too much emotion. Stop thinking._

Witchers don’t _have_ emotions, Geralt wants to say. They don’t have anything but a Path filled with _death_ \--.

_Death. Life. Love. Strength. You have more emotions than anyone I know. There is more to the decades than loss. My son will teach you. You have much to learn yet, little wolf._

Geralt hasn’t been a cub in years. He’s older than the griffin in front of him, but never has he felt smaller than he is now.

Twig craned her head down to regard Jaskier, and an overwhelming wave of _love-care-tenderness_ that barraged his nose nearly threw him down onto his hands and knees. _Protect my son, Geralt, so he can protect you._

The witcher gritted his teeth together, then bowed his head. 

_Yes,_ he feels the gentle caress of a feather against his mind. _Yes, I think you and my son will be just fine._

His lips twitch, and something like sorrow settles in his chest. “I’ll… keep an eye on him.”

_Good. But perhaps finding him a healer would be a wiser move._

Then, Twig’s abruptly chortles. Geralt raises a brow down at her, though relief filled his chest as the potion’s healing finally took hold. Though its progress was slow, the griffin's wounds were bubbling at the edges, scabbing over as the blood coagulated and the flow began to cease.

_I am not so fragile that I will die before my son. Go. Magic hangs in the air, and lilac twists in the breeze._

Geralt scowled and tucked the empty bottle into the satchel on his belt. He pointedly ignored the way the griffin’s body huffed with laughter, and the flush climbing up the back of his neck. “Fucking birds.” 

_Don't use that language around my children, little wolf._

The witcher grunted, looking away as he climbs back onto his feet. Geralt looked over them one last time, taking in the image of broken wings cradling a weak body and the heavy exhaustion that reflected in a barely coherent gaze of amber. He swallowed heavily, took in a steadying breath, then watched with a detached curiosity as a trio of hatchlings burst through the trees and nestled into Jaskier's limp arms.

Geralt's heart does something in his chest. It's weird and strange and he doesn't _like_ weird and strange things, so he rushes away and pretends not to hear Twig's ringing laughter echo between his ears.

Nothing he did could save the bard's hand, but maybe... Maybe magic could.

He can't let her die. He's tired of killing things, he's so, so _tired of it_. 

He turns to Roach and prepares for scorching flames and violet eyes.

* * *

_"Yennefer."_

_"Of course. As I'm on my way to burn at the pyre, the very last person I wanted to see appears. Now that I've seen you, leave."_

_"Yen--."_

_"Do not. Do not breathe my name."_

_"Please--."_

_"Get out."_

_"There is a mother and her children, dying in the mountains."_

_"So are a million others."_

_"They deserve better."_

_"So did I, and yet. Here I am."_

_"Yennefer..."_

_"You lost everyone on that mountain, Geralt. You shouldn't be surprised when they don't come scrambling back."_

* * *

Yennefer was carved from blood and hardship. She was forged in the blackest fires, treated like shit by her stepfather and ignored by her mother. She never had anyone else to thank for her ascent into power; no one, but her own two hands and her screaming will to be something more than _nothing_. She, tainted with the blood of beasts, with a twisted spine and a crooked jaw, sold for four marks by her own family while her mother watched.

(She learns about the elves in Aretuza, of the power harbored in their veins, and something in her _wants it_.)

Her life was born through the absence of choice. She didn't choose to have elf-blood. She didn't choose to be hideous. She didn't choose to be taken from her home, priced at half the worth of a pig. 

All her life, Yennefer wanted to be _beautiful_. She wanted a straight jaw, a family to love her- _anyone to love her-_ and the brush of soft hair against her straight spine. She wanted people to fall over themselves for her, to drop to their knees for her, to _worship_ her and _love_ her and _choose her--_.

She straps herself to a chair, throws her head back and screams. _Power._ Beauty is _power_ , and power is the strength to choose and force and shatter things to fit what she wants.

But, Yennefer wants _everything_. She wants the world at her feet. She wants the men grovelling at her heels. She wants the women clutching at her dress. She wants power and beauty and choice and the strength of _hurricanes_. She wants the earth to move because she wills it so, she wants the sun to shine because she wants it to, she wants the birds to sing because she's _beautiful._

Then, she's cradling the cold body of an infant to her chest. She buries her beneath the sand. Her heart twists in her chest and she wants.

She breaks. She screams. She burns. She pieces herself together as something _stronger_ , forcing the jagged edges back together. She grabs a handful of sand, admiring the soft trickles of broken earth, before setting it ablaze and turning it into hardened glass.

Yennefer doesn't need weak things. Yennefer takes, because it's all she's ever known.

She walks into the Aretuza ballroom, and _takes._

She walks into the city of Rinde, and _takes._

She walks the continent, and _takes._

She walks into the mountains and, for once, decides to give _._

She walks out of the mountains, bound to a man with eyes like a wolf's and hair like storm-tossed seas, and swears to _never give again._

* * *

She stepped out of the portal and followed the scent of blood. She walked, violet eyes roiling like flames as the sun rises behind her.

Yennefer was in the mountains. Again. Fantastic.

Exactly the place she wanted to be, because she simply had _such_ fond memories from the last time she was here.

She primly glided around the low-hanging branches, using the barest hints of magic to expel the dirt and dust clinging to her boots. She climbed up the mountain side, moving to where the wafting smell of iron was thickest, and stepped through the bushes. The carcass of an immense griffin greets her, wings snapped to oblivion and bleeding from a thousand cuts as its eye stare out into nothing. Flies hang around its open wounds, maggots lining the flesh, and the mage regards it disdainfully.

Pretty as a picture, truly.

Yennefer skirted around the body, absently kicking the decapitated head of _another_ griffin out of her path. She reached out with her magic, and feels the barest of fluctuations push back. Alarm kicked in once she properly feels out the presence and moved closer to its origin; it's... _strange_. Unlike anything she'd ever felt before. It was gentle and pliable; like clouds and grass and all things _soft_ , so dissimilar to her own whirling mass of unconquerable heat, and it...

Well. It _sung_.

Abruptly, something like dread settles in her bones.

She really shouldn't be surprised when she steps into yet _another_ clearing and Jaskier's fucking lying there. Surrounded by... griffins. Big griffins. Griffins that are... hugging him?

She's still surprised.

The leviathan of feathers turned to regard her, yellow eyes catching the light and reflecting it like stars. Unconsciously, flames come to life in the palms of her hands and she stepped forwards. She needed to get Jaskier out of here before he fucking _died--._

"Y- _Yennefer?_ "

Speak of the devil. "Bardling."

He groaned, and even the fucking sound of it was musical. Yennefer watched with growing shock as he rested a palm against the griffin's shoulder and hauled himself upright-- only to fall back over. The monster caught him with her beak, letting out a soft warble as she helped him find his footing again. Then, its strength failed and it fell back to the bloodstained earth with a rumbling groan. The bard grimaced, whispering a quiet, "thanks," before turning to her.

Finally. Some _answers_.

Of course, Jaskier didn't provide any answers. In fact, he barely managed three words. "Save my mother."

Then, rather ingloriously, he fainted. Again.

Yennefer felt her jaw drop open.

"What the _fuck_ , bard."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yennefer's here now guys  
> dont ask me why i dont know she just came in and stole the fic--


	7. Matka Księżyc

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Open hearts are open wounds. When one prods too hard, it should be no surprise that it will bleed.
> 
> And yet.
> 
> Geralt is a fucking idiot, Jaskier slips beneath the tide, and Yennefer is the unknowing catalyst to it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: WHOLESOME GERASKIER  
> my fingers: ANGST-ANGST-ANGST-ASDKJBAS

Jaskier always had been soft.

All the other boys liked swords and steel and proving themselves. They liked breaking things, mud and knights and gleaming swords, and being _better_. They liked bravery _;_ liked things with rough edges that they could bend to their will. Insults were easy to spout out, spat like fire that burned through cloth and skin alike.

Obviously, he didn't very much like the other boys.

He liked imagining things, and he always will. He liked making poems, singing songs and writing stories to share with other people. He liked _happiness;_ liked making things that could bring other people closure and joy. Lullabies fell from his lips like promises, ballads flowed in the air around him like birdsong. 

He’d heard of people comparing him to the sun and, while it’s very flattering, it had never felt… _right_.

A little known fact of Jaskier, is that he was born as _Julian_. And Julian was born under a full moon, hanging low in the earth, that glowed brighter than winter snow.

The first time he opened his eyes, all he saw the silver disk hovering above him. It twinkled and winked down at him, dancing clouds of stardust shifting in the sky as their shadow reflected on the wall. Jaskier gurgled and laughed, grubby fingers reaching out as stories of knights and princesses played out across his room.

The first time he walked, he struggled to his feet beneath the ethereal gaze of the moon. He sobbed and cried, lost in the garden, until the light broke through the leaves. He wipes up the snot sticking to his chin and, with a set jaw, pushes up to his feet. That night was filled with bursting stars and soothing lullabies, and Jaskier waddled home to his frantic caretaker.

The first time he wrote a sonnet, he sat on a bench in the maze, pudgy fingers struggling to grip the quill. He bit his lip and sighed so sadly, that the sky turned to blackness above him. Grey clouds swirled, the smell of ozone and rain clinging to the air, and Jaskier wrote about a Mother Moon and her lost child.

Jaskier loved the night. The night loved Jaskier.

He loved the cool fingers that stroked through his hair, and the reverent silence as he sung into the dark woods. The night loved his blue eyes, and the way he sang to them on a hill cresting the forests. The moon stared down at him, and he felt the day’s worries slip away- replaced by a soothing calm that settled deep into his bones.

The stars glowed so much brighter when he looked up at them, and the space between them swirled with bursts of colour. Jaskier’s fingers were always more steady, more energized, beneath the comforting shroud of blue. Once, he sung of green and red trails journeying across the canvas of blue-- burning tracks of sunlight that lit up the earth. 

The next night, he gazed up and saw them in the sky.

Jaskier smiled.

Things are… a little bit more complicated when he’s travelling with Geralt. He can’t stare up at the sky for hours, singing and serenading, because the witcher will just throw a bedroll at him with a grunt. Jaskier can’t talk to the moon, watching the comforting rays of white burst out from behind the mountains, because Geralt will just look at him like he’s crazy.

...Which he might be.

Oh fuck.

..Nah.

Unless?

...Nah, he's too pretty to be crazy.

But if the moon glowed a little brighter when they made camp, then Geralt didn't notice. If the occasional owl perched on the branch above them as Jaskier strummed, then Geralt didn't say a word. If a pack of wolves skirted around their beds and attacked the caravan further down the road instead, then Geralt shrugged it off as luck.

Jaskier, evidently, was a _very lucky_ man.

* * *

Yennefer sits on a log. Geralt settles down across from her as a fire blazes between them. Not too far away, Jaskier continued to sleep the day away in a healing trance, trapped in the wings of that _fucking massive_ and _frankly terrifying griffin_ that she’d finally managed to stabilize once night began to fall.

A griffin. A _griffin_.

What kind of fucked up family tree _is this_.

“So,” she starts off, breathing in through her nose. “I come here, expecting to find an ailing mother and her infant children, but instead find _Jaskier_ and his… what, exactly?”

“Mother.”

“His _mother_ ,” Yennefer sounds out slowly. “Do you mean the _griffin_?”

Geralt hums.

Oh for fucking-- “Witcher, I know you have the average vocal talents of a dying lamb, but I need more than your mono-syllable _grunts_ for answers.” 

He blinks, then opened his mouth. Finally, some _effort_. “The griffin adopted him. Since the dragon.”

Yennefer breathes out through her nose. “Thank you, Geralt _,_ ” she manages to bite out through clenched teeth. “You are a wealth of information, how kind of you to share.”

Geralt scratches his throat. “Hm.”

Oh, fuck this. The sooner she gets this over with, the sooner she can venture to Nazair and get out of this scenario. Yennefer massaged her temple, already feeling exhaustion weigh her down movements. “I’m going to make this quick, witcher, because I don’t particularly wish to get caught up in your messes.”

She stood, stepping across the rocky terrain as she kneels next to the strange huddle of feathers, flesh and hair. The witch holds a glowing hand to both griffin and human, tossing a grim look at the witcher over her shoulder.

“Your little bard is going to be fine. He’s exhausted, but once he wakes up in a couple days, he’ll be right as rain. You can get rid of the crease on your brow, Geralt.”

The witcher grunts and, sure enough, the wrinkle gets _bigger_.

Yennefer huffs, briefly amused, before her smile drops. “The griffin, however…” She pauses, not knowing quite how to word it.

Ah, well. Better to just rip the bandage off. 

“She won’t wake up for a long, long time, Geralt.” When he opens his mouth to protest, Yennefer only bares her teeth and sharply raises her hand to cut him off. “Don’t spout drivel. In case you didn’t notice, she shattered _every fucking bone in her body_.”

Her heart doesn’t do anything when his expression falls flat. She read books about how she’d know love because her breath caught in her lungs or how her chest would ache when she looked at them in a moment of weakness.

Yennefer doesn’t feel anything.

“How long?” 

She turns back, ignoring the coarse quality of his voice. “For her? Frankly, I’m not entirely sure. Weeks, perhaps. Maybe even months. Could be a whole year before she wakes up. My magic is doing what it can, Geralt, but even I can’t keep a spell up for that long.”

“Is it better to…” His voice tapers off, and Yennefer frowns. It doesn't take a genius to figure out what he meant but… it did nothing to make it any less grim.

“Killing her could be--.”

“No.”

Both heads turn to look down at the bard. Jaskier looks up at them, eyes burning as he cradles the hatchlings in his arms. Yennefer rubs her head, already feeling the aching throb behind her eyes build at even the _thought_ of the coming discussion. “Bard,” she tried, voice uncharacteristically soft. “Every second she’s asleep, she feeds on my magic to heal.”

Jaskier’s brows knit together in frustration. “It can’t be that much if you’re still standing.”

She scowls, glaring down at him. “I am standing because of the sole fact that I refuse to fall, boy. If I do this every night, I will _die_.”

Their eyes met in battle of stormy glares. Violent purple tearing into an endless sea of blue, before Jaskier finally looked away. His shoulders finally slump down and, with more care than Yennefer had ever seen in her life, runs his fingers through the hatchlings’ feathers. “I know,” Jaskier whispers, face hidden behind a fringe of chocolate brown. “I’m sorry.”

She feels the slightest ache in her ribs at the sight. She chalks it up to the painful healing session, and dismisses it.

Yennefer stares at him harshly and can’t help but wonder if, maybe, that infant on the beach could’ve grown up to be like him. Soft, spoiled, pliant; a ray of goodness that the world is waiting to stomp out. A charming life of fairytale stories, who looks out at the world and sees the kindness of strangers instead of the cruelty of hardship. She feels something… _gentle_ in her chest. The witch doesn’t know what it is.

She can hear Geralt shifting behind her, the dirt shuffling under his boots as he struggles for a response. Jaskier is hunched over still, and Yennefer can practically _hear_ his damned tears hit the ground.

She groans.

“Bard, look up. What do you see?” 

“Uh,” he blinks, looking more lost than anything. “...You?”

Yennefer rolls her eyes then reaches out to snatch his chin, ignoring Geralt’s growl behind her, and wrenches Jaskier’s head to aim above him. High in the atmosphere, the moon glows like a beacon-- staring down at them as the stars twinkle brighter at the attention.

Staring down at _Jaskier,_ rather.

“You are loved by a great many things in this world, bard, so stop grovelling in the dirt and letting them slip through your fingers.”

His stare was empty, blank from confusion, before filling with something similar to _peace_ as he continues to stare unerringly into the sky. Something chimes on the breeze, and the scent of orchids hang heavy around them. She turns, something sharp in her smile as she stares at Geralt like he is _prey_. "I do believe," she hums softly. "That your little bard has gotten a rather _entertaining_ idea on how to fix this laughable mess."

The witcher has the good sense to look concerned; that being, his lips twitch in a way that could vaguely be construed as concerned. "Yennefer..."

"Oh no, don't you worry. I'm staying. Perhaps your songbird has talons, hm?"

Geralt is worried.

Jaskier is still staring at the moon.

Yennefer is already excited about tonight's entertainment.

* * *

It came as no surprise that, in fact, said talons were made entirely out of _cotton._

"You're jesting, surely."

"...No."

"You... you're going to sing the moon a fucking song? To heal your pet griffin?"

"She's not a pet, you _hag_. And when you put it like that, you can do me the grand favor of walking off this cliff. Right now. Please."

Yennefer takes her sweet time, blinking in utter confusion before erupting into _guffaws_. "I can't-- I can't believe this. What a sheltered life you must have had, to sing and ask nicely for miracles instead of grabbing them with your hands and forcing them to comply." 

Jaskier thinks about cramps of a starving stomach, of freezing cold winds that bit into fragile flesh, and the shine of steel in the night. He thinks of long days, burning stones digging into the soles of blistered feet. He thinks of his life, the crack of a cane against his hands and the scorching stares of his mother that burned into his back. He thinks of it all, swallows past the screaming lump in his throat, and hums. "Perhaps," he says softly. "Perhaps it was."

Because, regardless of it all, he had been loved.

The moon's silver gaze eased his aches, and the singing of birds ensured he was never alone. Jaskier had kindly men, offering a place to sleep in the winter, and elderly women, offering salves to lather over his abused feet. He had four blissful years at Oxenfurt, a roof over his head and the admiration of schoolmates. He had bits and pieces of kindness, reminders that the world wasn't inherently cruel, and that was more than most people got in all their lifetimes.

The world is rough place, that breaks you down and forces you to stand back up. Jaskier has learned that, regardless of the fact, it's up to them to decide to be cruel or kind. It's a choice. It's _always_ a choice.

"You can't just _take_ things, like, all the time," Jaskier plucks at the strings on his lute, glaring when phantom pains shoot up his hand. "Sometimes, you need to ask nicely and give them a lovely song and _then_ demand that they heal your dying adopted mother that you've known for two and a half weeks."

Yennefer's teeth clicks together as she shuts her mouth. Geralt closes his eyes, then proceeds to massage the bridge of his nose.

What. "Why are you staring at me like that- I'm right!"

"Jaskier."

The bard glares. "Don't _Jaskier_ me, Geralt! Imagine where you'd be without me. You'd be a very sad, very friendless man who talked to trees more than other people. You simply can't bear the _thought_ of not being near the greatest minstrel on the Continent, of course. Clearly."

Geralt swipes a tired hand down his face but, Jaskier notes with utter _glee_ , doesn't even try to deny it.

He grins. "See? He loves me!" He hops up from the log, skirts around the fire and sidles down next to the witcher.

"No I don't." Was it just him, or were Geralt's ears turning red? "Go away."

"You are an absolute peach. I'm going to hug you." Oh fuck, they were.

Geralt scowls. The bard watches with no small amount of wonder as the redness spreads down his neck. "Touch me and die."

Jaskier slings an arm around his broad shoulders, smiling easily as his hand waves the very _words_ out of the conversation. "Oh please, Geralt, step on me. I'll even lie in the ground for you. Just as long as you avoid the face-- I mean, or _don't_. It's fine either way."

Very seriously, Geralt laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. "I'd squish you."

Gods, he's adorable. Geralt's adorable. Jaskier is going to protect this man forever, anger management issues be _damned_. "Don't worry," the bard cooed softly- after all it's very important to be gentle with your adopted introvert, otherwise they'll get scared and run away. "I'll scare off all the people that pick on you." 

The witcher leans back, then whips his hand away. Very pointedly, he wipes the Jaskier-germs away on his pants. Yennefer snorts from where she's sitting, leveling them both with a smirk. "Careful, Geralt, your bard's going to take over your job at this rate."

Geralt gives her a long look, and something similar to electricity flares between them. The bard looks away, his throat suddenly dry as the air is filled with tension and anticipation. Jaskier licks his lips, letting out a shuddering breath as he tries to focus on Rose's soft snorts beneath his fingers.

_(In his head, Jaskier chides himself for teasing Geralt so openly. He doesn't even pretend that he's competition for Yennefer of Vengerberg. He's not enough. He's never been enough, and it won't stop now.)_

"I'll have you know," Jaskier said pointedly. "That he's _your_ witcher, thanks." And _look_ , okay, he knows it's a bit of a low blow, considering they're right there and dealing with the emotional backlash on the mountain. But he couldn't help it; if Yennefer got to dick the man, then Jaskier can damn well be a petty shit over it. He's _allowed_.

Yennefer raises a brow at him, a warning flitting in those violet eyes like minnows.

Geralt grunts, a furrow forming on his forehead.

_(The knowledge didn't make it easier to swallow.)_

"Ah yes," The bard manages to bite out. "Truly, you two are the unrecognized vocal talents of this generation. Now, back to the topic at hand! What do you think about this one? _Distant moon, sweet silver glow._ _.._ "

_(He'd always choose her over him.)_

Beneath his skin, something cracks.

* * *

In the end, when he sings there's no grand ceremony to it. In fact, it happens in the early hours of the morning-- with the soft breaths of Geralt and Yennefer echoing in the cold air behind them. It seemed that, even in their sleep, they were drawn to each other; evident by the way they closed the distance between them subconsciously. The witcher's arm was thrown over the woman's waist, holding her close, and she curls into his warmth with a quiet hum.

Jaskier watches, and he aches.

Even when they're trying to stay apart, they come back together again. Even when they're burning, they burning _together_. It's heartrendingly beautiful, and it makes him want to choke.

He stands, walking to the edge of the cliff as his chest twinges traitorously. Jaskier sits, throwing his legs over the precipice as he stares up at the sky, ignoring the burning at the edges of his eyes. The moon stares back, full and brighter than he'd ever seen before, while the stars flicker between dimming and beaming. The bard's fingers raise, cradling an invisible lute in his palms, as his fingers begin to pluck the unseen strings.

He misses his lute. It... He needed to find it again, because when he lost it, it felt like he'd lost a piece of himself.

Words push at his lips, nudging at Jaskier's tongue. An unseen force blows against his face, wiping away the droplets that settled on the edge of his lashes.

The nightsong echoes around him, filling the air with the melodies of cicadas and wind as the forest slumbers. Jaskier swallows past the lump in his throat, opens his mouth, and an unknown song slips into the sky.

 _"Darkness, darkness everywhere, do you feel all alone?"_ His eyes went wide. He doesn't know this song-- he's never heard of it before, what the fuck. He wasn't meant to be singing this; the song was meant to be happier; softer. It was meant to be a serenade to the moon, complimenting her, not-- not _this--._

 _"The subtle grace of gravity, the heavy weight of stone."_ Jaskier was meant to sound charming and persuasive, not full of heart-break and longing and-- and whatever the hell this heaviness was. Everything was going so _wrong_ and _his lips just kept moving--._

 _"You don't see what you possess, a beauty calm and clear,"_ The words just kept flowing out and, eventually, he just let himself surrender to the song. Music was music, and music was all about intent. There wasn't any Chaos in music; there was only purpose. _"It floods the sky and blurs the darkness like a chandelier."_

The words pushing at his vocal chords abruptly ceased. Jaskier frowns; surely there's more than that? It was barely a single verse.

And... And that was it. 

Did it... Did it work? Twig. _Twig!_

He hears the slightest ruffle behind him and whips around, a flicker of hope burning in his veins, mouth parting as he lets out an expectant, _"Twig!_ _"_

Oh.

Nothing.

Jaskier turns, and nothing has changed. Twig still wheezes with every breath, Yennefer and Geralt are still _clutching at each other_ , and the hatchlings are exactly as he left them.

_Nothing._

He feels something in his chest splinter.

His voice faded into the chilly breeze, and Jaskier just sits there. He soaks in the responding silence and, somehow, feels the loneliness he's ever been in his life. He slumps over, like a puppet with cut strings, and buries his head in his arms as an icy cold freezes settles into the space between his rib cage. The bard barely feels the goosebumps forming on his bare skin, and soon all he can focus on is the overwhelming _numbness_ of his heart.

The moon gazes down at him, and Jaskier wants to scream.

He wants his lute. He wants his music. He wants Yennefer to _fuck off_. He wants Twig to hold him. He wants to bury himself--.

He wants a mother that'll treat him like a son.

He wants a father that'll be proud of him.

He wants a family to love him.

He wants _love_.

In the end, Jaskier wants a lot of things, but they're all things he can't have. In the sheet of blackness around him, he picks up the broken pieces of his heart and gently slots them back together. He eases every splinter back in, smoothing over the cracks and chips with careful fingers as the sky slipped into the hazy shades of dawn. The hurts disappear back beneath his skin, and the coldness slips away with the stars flickering above him.

He'll try again tomorrow night.

•••

Yennefer and Geralt are sleeping beneath the same tree, while Jaskier's bedroll is left by the fire-pit.

When night veils the sky, Jaskier forgoes sleep and sits at the edge.

He sings, because he doesn't know what else to do.

•••

The cold bites into his bones. Yennefer and Geralt spent the night at the nearby township. Jaskier doesn't set up the campsite.

Instead, he lets the fire turn to ash and lets the ice numb his soul.

He sings again, because he wants to wake up.

••• 

Geralt comes back with dark bruises lining his neck. Yennefer's lips are swollen and coloured ruby red. Jaskier's skin feels like frost.

There's no song tonight, he only watches the dusk fade from red to black.

The stars are gone.

••• 

Yennefer's stare burns into his back. Geralt tries to push him away from the cliff. Jaskier acknowledges nothing.

The stars are dead. The moon swallows half the world in its visage.

It's quiet.

••• 

It's on the last night that Jaskier finally cracks. He's alone on the edge. Yennefer's in town and her witcher went with her. He tries to crush the broken halves of his soul together, tries to force them back together like Yennefer had; like _Geralt_ had. His nails dig into the dirt and, bit by bit, his heart crumbles to dust in his hands. He's going insane; losing it and losing everything he loves, and there's nothing to drag him back out.

He tries to breathe. His breath mists the air, and his lungs feel like swollen balloons in his chest. They inflate painfully, pushing up against skin and organs, and if he breathes any more he's going to _pop_ and oh _gods_ his brain feels like ice and he can't _see_ anything and--

Jaskier can't breathe. He can't feel his hands. His head feels separate from his body. There's no mouth to inhale through, and all he hears is _ringing_.

He pitches forward, feels his brain tumble _down, down, down..._

Behind him, the moon has cracks of crimson running through it's surface, ebony blackness tainting the edges. The clouds are swirling like a storm, and the stars are hidden behind an endless sheet of grey.

Jaskier chokes as he feels something latch onto him, pulling him up as his collar digs into his windpipe. He blinks rapidly, seeing something flicker in front of his eyes before him. He coughs and wheezes and suddenly, _finally_ , he wakes up. 

He's dangling over the edge of the cliff and, for a moment, he dares to think that it's _Geralt_ holding onto him. Instead, three avian heads pop over the rim, squawking as they struggle to hold onto him.

Instead of the disappointment he was expecting, he felt warm.

Rose squeaks, rallying her siblings as she clamps down in his shirt and _heaves_. Dipper warbles quietly behind his sisters, doing his best to hold onto Jaskier's hand without hurting him. Alice, the biggest of them all, has her beak carefully clamped around his neck and holding him steady. Jaskier grits his teeth, digging his hands into the rocks jutting out of the cliffside and _heaving_ himself upwards. The stones cut into his palms, leaving behind dirty scrapes and bloody tracks along his fingers, but he keeps going; inch by inch, second by second, he gets closer to the top, closer to his siblings.

 _Siblings_ , he thinks with wonder. _Family._

He's never had one of those before.

By the time Yennefer and Geralt return to him, Jaskier's wrapped his bloodied palms in the scraps of a ripped shirt. He's huddled next to Twig, hiding beneath her wing, with the dirt on his face being rubbed away by Dipper's beak. Alice wraps herself around him, head buried in the bard's lap, while Rose hisses and snaps at the two whenever they get too close. Twig rumbles in her sleep, gentle purrs humming in the air, and the sound echoes in his ears like a lullaby.

Beyond them all, the moon is a clean slate of glistening silver. Rays of pure light touch feathered wings and caress through clusters of brown hair. The stars explode with brightness as tracks of red, green and pink fill the sky with colour.

Unknown to them all, a string of starlight casts itself around the small family. A graceful hand leads a glistening thread between four souls, piecing the broken shards together as Destiny gently cradles them in its palms. Chaos huffs, then turns away. Fate grunts, and watches.

In the morning, Yennefer will continue on to Nazair. 

In the morning, Jaskier will hold his head higher.

In the morning, Geralt will decide to stay.

But that's in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one day ill draw twig
> 
> the song is you are the moon by the hush sound, because i dont have a single musical bone in my entire body
> 
> hippity hoppity canon is officially now my property


	8. Słońce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are happening. So many things, oh god.

The following day, Jaskier kick-starts the morning with a particularly _glorious_ shit in a bush and he honestly felt a hundred times better. He marches back to camp, proud as a canary, and announces his arrival with a riveting, " _Fuck,_ that was good."

Yennefer pinches the bridge of her nose in annoyance and, really, that just made his day even better.

Geralt, the blessed man that he is, just snorts. His lips twitch upwards the slightest of amounts and Jaskier is officially having a Great Time Today™.

The witch throws the pair of them an exasperated stare before rising to her feet. With the slightest flicker of magic, all the grime that had accumulated over her stay in the forest disappeared, and Yennefer looked as flawless as she always did. Jaskier didn't pout. He _didn't_.

Okay, so maybe he did. Just a little.

Stupid mages.

"Well, seeing as my job here is done," Yennefer stares pointedly at Jaskier, who only pretends to clean out his ear with his pinkie. Her nose scrunches up and, with a final narrowing of her eyes, turns, "I can _finally_ go on my merry way and, hopefully, never see you or your pet witcher ever again." 

Jaskier's eyebrows shot up. "Hold on," he protests, gesturing to Twig, "What about _her?_ Is she going to be alright? She's going to wake up, right?"

"She'll wake up," Geralt stands at last, turning away from his pack. Hilariously, Dipper has claimed the spot on his shoulder, and the little hatchling looks more like a kitten in comparison to the witcher's broad physique. "She's... just healing. It's similar to when I'm injured, it takes me a while to wake up."

"He's right," the witch speaks up again. She stared at the sleeping griffin, like a scholar would to a particularly baffling _mystery_ , and Jaskier steps in front of her with a sharp glare. Yennefer rolls her eyes, before brushing off dirt from her shoulders. "I don't know what changed, but she's not feeding off my magic. Perhaps your little song worked, pretty nightingale. It will, however, take her at least a couple months for her to wake up."

"So am I meant to just... leave her here?"

Yennefer flicks her hair over her shoulder, primly raising a judging brow. "That's up to you, bardling. She's protected by... by something. I don't know what. I don't care to find _out_ what. As far as I know, _and I know a lot_ , other creatures don't even know this damn peak exists."

The bard opens his mouth, but she just talks over him. "Look Jaskier, I've done all I can already. I have work to attend to, and I can't get any of it done when I'm here."

He promptly shuts his mouth. Jaskier inhales, exhales, then straightens up. He strides over to her and, in possibly the single most _awkward moment of his life_ , stiltedly pats the witch on her shoulder. "Thank you for healing Twig. You might be a bitch, but you're a good bitch- even Alice likes you, and she doesn't like anyone."

Alice squawks outrageously from where she's wrapped around Jaskier's shoulders. She sniffs haughtily, then primly extends her neck out to allow the barest brushes of her beak against the woman's forehead.

Yennefer freezes at the careful touch, her eyes round and wide as her breath halts. Her purple eyes swirl with something she can't place and, somehow, her expression inexplicably _softens_. She speaks again, fingers tracing the spot on her brow, and her voice is nothing but a gentle whisper. "Curious and curiouser."

Something tight in Jaskier uncoils as the griffin warbles. The monster's beak slowly draws away from Yennefer's skin, snorting faintly. Alice turns away and squawks at Jaskier, burying her head back against her brother's neck. He smiles warmly, laughing openly at the mage's flabbergasted expression. "See? She's a little shit, but she's a _regal_ little shit. Birds of a feather, even, hm?"

Sobering quickly, she glares at him. Alice, as if she could understand every word, promptly slaps him in the face with her tail. Jaskier gaped, spluttering as feathers got caught in his open mouth, before glaring down at the griffin as she chortles at him. "You little _traitor--_ _!"_

Yennefer stares, shocked as the bard before her, before she bursts into a fit of bright, ringing laughter. "Perhaps, indeed."

Behind him, Jaskier can hear the soft rumbles of Geralt's chuckles displace the air. Even Rose looks entertained from where she's sat on a rock, high-pitched kreens escaping her beak. The bard feels his heart beat steadily in his chest.

It's nice.

* * *

Yennefer's gone, zipped away into a portal, leaving behind Geralt and him to clean up the lingering evidence of their departure- that being, Jaskier sitting on a rock and watching his lovely witcher do it all for him. A real sweetheart, that one. "Say," he starts off, tickling Rose under her chin, "Since Twig is, you know, a _teeny_ tiny bit out of it, how are these adorable meat-heads going to eat?"

Geralt freezes. "Jaskier."

He blinks. "What."

The witcher turns around, and folds his arms, "We're not taking them with us, it's too dangerous."

Jaskier's stare shifts rather pointedly from Geralt, to Rose, and then to where Dipper's chewing the shit out of his own tail, "Uh."

Standing, Geralt taps the hilt of his silver sword. "Monster hunter, Jaskier. Emphasis on the _hunter_."

The bard waves his hand dismissively. "Oh, come on! _Look_ at them, Geralt," He lifts up Rose, pressing his cheek against her face as he holds her aloft. "Is this the face of a killer? Look at her little face and-- ow!" Rose hisses, pecking at his nose as she grumpily kicks her feet. Setting her down, he couldn't help blowing a raspberry after her as she leaps off the log and hid behind the witcher's legs.

He forgot how much of a little shit she is.

Rose butts her head against the witcher's boots, keening loudly as she presses up against him. Geralt's lips purse, brows knitting together, before he kneels in the dirt and opens up his arms. Without a moment to waste, she lets out a delightful warble and leaps into his hold, curling up and burying her beak in his warmth. Jaskier's lip quirk at the man's hesitance, his discomfort obvious in the way his eyebrow twitched.

That's adorable.

"What?"

Oh fuck, he said that out loud. "Hm? Did you say something?" 

Geralt tilts his head, a river of white falling over his shoulder as he levels his smoldering golden gaze on him. "No, but you--"

No man should be allowed to look so hot, what the _fuck-._

" _So,"_ Jasker squeaks, possibly just a _tad_ flustered, "You're very hot today--" No wait, _fuck that wasn't meant to come out,_ "-I mean, the weather. The weather is very hot today. You look hot. Sweaty-hot."

Flawless save, Jaskier.

Geralt looks concerned, "Uh _\--."_

Alice was laughing at him, that cad. Jaskier felt sweat dripping down his neck. Abort, _abort._ "Wow, I am suddenly overtaken with the need to take a shit, give me a minute." _Why did he say that._

Before he could make matters even worse, Jaskier scurried out of the clearing- leaping over Dipper's purring form as he made for the trees. He could practically _feel_ the heat in his face burning him, and it took everything the bard had in him to not just knock himself out on the nearest tree. However, once he was a good distance away, Jaskier _absolutely_ began smacking his own forehead.

"Should I jump off the cliff," he wonders to himself, "I think it'd be faster than blood-loss."

_No, because then he'll jump down after you._

"Fuck, You're right. Maybe I should just jump into a nekker nest?"

_There's none nearby, you idiot. Mother kills them before they turn into a problem._

"What about a dragon cave?"

_You lot took care of the nearest one, remember? Now shut up and come back, your pet is annoying me._

Jaskier splutters, "My _pet?!_ My mind must be a piece of shit if it thinks that my _family--."_

_I'm talking about the white one._

The bard's brain short-circuits. Uh. "...The white one?"

_With golden eyes, yes._

Oh. Oh shit. "This isn't my subconscious, is it?"

_It's Alice._

"What."

* * *

He felt a little bit uncomfortable holding a baby griffin in his arms, to be honest.

Geralt looks around, clearing his throat as Rose (or, at least, he's pretty _sure_ it's Rose) curled into his hold. This was weird. This was very weird. She was very small and very fragile, and he was more than a little scared that she'd snap in half if he so much as _twitched_ his fingers. Royal griffins were meant to be _large_ and _terrifying_ and _ugly_ monsters that could rip you in _half_ , not small and affectionate and _cute_.

Fuck.

He looks up from the hatchling and, almost immediately, his eyes are trapped by Alice's relentless stare.

Uh.

Shifting his weight from foot to foot, Geralt tries to make his movements as smooth as he physically _can_ so he doesn't disturb Rose. He looks back up, sort of hoping that the other one would've turned away by now.

She hadn't. Alice's eyes just narrow into thin slits.

 _Hm_ _._

"Do you," Geralt licks his lips and tries not to think about the fact that he's talking, out loud, to a _griffin._ "...Do you want me to put her down?"

She stands then and, as if he isn't even worth her attention, turns around and curls up away from him. Alice raises her tail then, with reckless abandon, lets her behind _sing_. That being, she farts. Violently.

As he's vomiting into the bushes, he distantly wonders if being petty is just a requirement that comes with being related to Jaskier.

* * *

Somewhere in the woods, Jaskier's massaging his temples and wondering if being around Geralt is just a _magnet_ for all things weird and weirder. "Are we... We're what now?"

_Telepathically linked is the word that comes to mind, a term that I gleaned from your purple-eyed friend._

Of course, because that's just such a normal thing to happen. Wait a minute.

_Well, you did beseech the moon into healing Mother, so this really shouldn't be so surprising._

Jaskier claws at his hair, tugging at it harshly as he hisses into the air. "Hold the fuck up, are you telling me you _talked magic_ with _Yennefer of Vengerberg_."

_Yes._

He pinches the bridge of his nose, "Is that the reason why you touched her?"

_Also yes._

"You can't just," Jaskier tries not to scream, he tries really, _really_ hard. " _Mind-read_ people, for gods' sake Alice!"

_She let me, though._

"Melitele's _tits_."

_Don't say that, Rose will hear you._

_Aliiiice, Snowy's getting scared of me again!_

_Oh,_ gods _, speak of the devil..._

Jaskier couldn't help the groan that slips through his mouth. "Am I going to have to deal with you two chattering away in my skull?"

_Evidently._

_Hi, big brother! I'm hungry. Can we go now?_

His heart twinged. Rose was so fucking cute, that's not fair, he wants to be _annoyed, damnit!_ "What about Twig? We can't just- just leave her behind!"

_Mooooooooooom--_

_Mother, Jaskier wants to know if we can leave._

Jaskier gapes. "She's in here too?! She's _sleeping_ for fuck's sake--"

A new voice rumbles in his mind, sounding like the tremble of the earth before a storm. _Language, little one. And you should be taking better care of your siblings, Jaskier, why are you all still hanging around here? Go on! You lot needed to learn how to to care of yourselves eventually, leave your weary mother to her nap._

Alice, the snitch, just responds with a snappy, _s_ _ee?_

Something soft brushes against Jaskier's mind, fluffy like clouds and gentle like flowers, and somehow, he just _knows_ that it's Dipper. _I-I'm hungry, Jas. C-can we go?_

Fuck.

_Jaskier!_

_Ha, he said a bad word--_

_Shut_ up _Rose, for the love of--_

_Jaaaaas!_

"Okay, fine, fine! We're--"

* * *

"-Leaving. Right now, Geralt."

He blinks. "What."

Jaskier whips around, prowling up to him with hunched shoulders as he practically froths at the mouth. "We. Are. _Leaving._ "

Apparently, in the thirty minutes he spent shitting in the woods, his bard's turned a little bit unhinged. Geralt's brows scrunch together, and he turns to point out the very large, very _defenseless_ mother-griffin that was just lying there. At the edge of a cliff. Sleeping. "...What about Twig?" 

Imagine his shock when Jaskier, the same person who nearly bit Yennefer's head off for even _daring_ to suggest leaving her behind, waves his hand around like it's just _no big deal at all_. "She'll be fine," the bard rolls his eyes, grabbing Dipper and plopping the griffin on top of his head, "There's been a uh, recent development."

Is it just him, or does Alice snort?

Serene as the rising sun, Jaskier promptly gives her a smack over the head. "Shut up Alice."

Not just him then. Very reassuring.

Geralt holds his arms out, blinking helplessly as Rose shifted in his arms and he was sort of worried and he absolutely _did not beg at all, shut up--_ "Take her. Please."

Jaskier squints at him, "What, why? She's happier with you."

Not quite knowing how to communicate 'she's small and fragile and I'm scared I'll break her oh fuck' with words, Geralt just settles with a grunt. Jaskier's mouth forms an 'o', and he snaps his fingers in realisation. "That's your scared face! You're _scared_ _!"_

Geralt does _not_ have a scared face. He tells him as such. "Hm."

Not missing a beat, the bard breezes past him with a laugh. "The big bad witcher is scared he's going to hurt a _baby griffin_ , oh my _lord--"_

He feels his brows hike further up his forehead. " _Jaskier_."

Said man whips back around, shit-eating grin and all. "Yes, Geralt? What was that?"

Geralt inhales in a deep, _calming breath_ through his nose and tells himself that he can't hit the bard, otherwise the shorter man will just keel over and _die_. "We're packed and the camp's cleaned up. I need to get Roach, Rose will scare her."

With a huff, Jaskier reaches out to gently grab the griffin from his arms. Immediately, Geralt relaxes, the tension rolling out of his shoulders now that he's not under threat of accidentally crushing his companion's _bird-sister_. "I'll be back in a couple minutes, meet me outside the barrier."

Jaskier gives him a salute, already slinging a pack over his shoulder as Alice hauls herself upright. "Of course, Geralt! I'll be as speedy as a sparrow."

He nods, letting himself stare into clear blue eyes for a little while longer. His stomach flips again and his languid heart skips and, for a moment, he's _sure_ that he's managed to get bitten by something venomous or something--

"Geralt?"

The witcher looks up, startled out of his reverie as he lets out a questioning hum. "Everything alright?"

Jaskier smiles at him, warm and wide and unquestionably _soft_. "I'm glad I'm back with you again. I missed you." Geralt's stomach flips again and he feels lighter than a feather. Is he... poisoned?

That's bad.

"I..." Geralt clears his throat, turning away from his bard's bright eyes as he stares at the ground. "Thank you. For trusting me again."

He feels Jaskier's hand settle on his shoulder, and the heat seeps through the leather to settle soundly against his skin. "As if I'd let you leave me behind, you gorgeous bastard."

The witcher lets out a pleased rumble and, before his heart can do anymore weird things, he strides into the forest to find Roach. Because of the rush, he misses the high-five Jaskier shares with Rose, and focuses on getting to his pack as soon as he possibly can.

Geralt needs to drink at least three Golden Orioles if the poison is already affecting his internal organs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SEE THE GERASKIER TAG IS THERE FOR A REASON, IT'S HERE DAMNIT  
> im just going to hide my ineptitude at writing fluff behind the slow burn tag


	9. Ciepły

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Expert griffinologist and upcoming Mom of the Month is hit with the reality of raising three griffins with a Witcher.
> 
> It's an experience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ITS HERE  
> ITS ALIVE  
> ITS FIVE DAYS LATE  
> IM SORRY AHEAD OF TIME

As Rose whines in his arms and her siblings settle down around the fire for the night, Jaskier comes to the very sudden and very gripping realization that he has _no idea how to raise griffins_.

"Rose, honey, I can't feed you human fingers."

She blinks up at him with wide, doleful eyes, _b_ _ut whhhhy! Mom fed us them all the time, they're a good source of protein!_

Jaskier tucks his very much human fingers out of her line of sight. "That's bullsh-- pardon, it's _hogswash_ and you know it. Twig raised you on a diet of deer and warg meat, the only time you even tasted a human is when you tried to eat my damned _ear_."

 _Oh, okay._ Rose settles down and Jaskier, the fool that he is, relaxes-- at least, until she speaks. Again. 

_...Can I eat your ear?_

He lets out a very tired, very pained sigh. "No."

_Pleeeease?_

Hooking his hands under her armpits, Jaskier holds her up and levels her with a brow-tucked glare, "Don't make me drag Snowy into this, you lovely sack of fluff."

_Big brother, nooooo! He'll get scared of me again!_

Alice, blessed be her name, lopes over and primly snatches Rose out of his arms by the scruff of her neck. She warbles deep in her throat, plopping the smaller griffin down between her wings as she glares down. _Rose, stop being such a brat._ _You can't get everything you want anymore, learn to deal with it like the rest of us._

Oof. That's harsh.

With her ears pressing down against her skull, Rose sniffles, _b_ _-but..._

Jaskier feels his heart twitch. No, gods please no, not again _\--_

And, with that calming thought, Rose's sniffles turn into choked hiccups before, finally, loud heart-wrenching wails echo in the bridge between their minds. Jaskier hisses, pressing his hands against his throbbing temples as the sound ricochets between his ears and the sudden ache blindsides him. Alice isn't that much better off, her scolding thoughts descending into a white noise as her beak clicks in agitation. Next to him, Dipper is whimpering and burrowing himself in Jaskier's side, trying to muffle the violent screeches.

Jaskier waits a couple seconds, trying to get the pain under control, before he finally manages to be coherent enough to grab Rose. He hoists her into his lap, tracing calming circles into her back as the tantrum finally begins to ebb away. In the wake of her fussing, the silence that fills that bond is stretched and absent; as if they'd each closed one another out of it.

Finally, he feels Alice's side of the thread fill up with her presence: the regal frost of a white winter, wafting with the warm scents of cinnamon, _i_ _s it over?_

Sighing, the bard just watches fondly as the hatchling begins to doze off beneath his loving ministrations, "For now, yes. Now _Alice_ , you know what I'm going to say, don't you?"

He can practically feel her steel-eyed glare burning into his head as she hisses, Alice's feathers raising in offense while she gestures wildly at her sibling. _I just said the truth so she'd stop! I was trying to_ help _you!_

Good lord almighty, adolescents are just a hastle.

..Shit, he hopes she didn't hear that. Though, judging by the way Alice is baring her beak at him, that's a no.

Gods, here comes _another_ headache. 

Alice's beak peels back into what is most definitely a scowl.

Fuck. He did it again. Jaskier's not good at this telepathy shit.

Jaskier tries again, with a gentler voice this time and _hopefully_ she won't blow up at him, "Alice--

 _No,_ she turns on him, whacking him upside the head with her tail as she storms off. _Leave me alone! I refuse to talk to such an ungrateful whelp. Find me when you gain some sense, because you can't coddle them forever._

He really isn't so good at the whole sibling thing. Jaskier buries his head in Rose's feathers and tries not to groan.

Ugh, everything was so much easier when he was concussed.

* * *

Geralt chooses that time to show up, emerging from the treeline with a four rabbits slung over his shoulders.

He hesitates at the edge of the campsite, golden eyes taking in the Alice's absence and the bard's air of utter defeat, before shaking his head. The witcher shoots Jaskier a withering _look_ and the other man responds with nothing but a half-hearted shrug of his shoulders. Roach and Jaskier's gelding were the only ones who looked even _mildly_ content, grazing away from the rest of them.

Well. Alright then.

Time to figure out what the fuck Jaskier did this time.

Geralt sat down next to him with a grunt, hand dropping to his pack to fish out his skinning knife. "What happened?"

The bard lets out a quiet huff, eyes slipping shut, cradling Rose against his chest, "Just sibling stuff, Geralt, don't fret too much or you'll worry your hair right off of your pretty head."

Uh.

He blinks, raising a hand to pat down his hair. When nothing amiss is discovered, Geralt's brows knit together. "My hair is fine."

Then, after a beat of silence as his brain caught up, he adds, "I'm not _fretting_."

Jaskier snorts, tilting his head up at him. "Of _course_ ," he drawls, "I'm just imagining the cracks on the handle of your skinning knife, and the way you're hacking away at that poor rabbit like it killed your gran-gran."

Geralt looks down, and a half-mutilated rabbit stares up at him. Oh. "Fuc--"

He's cut off as something presses against his lips, distantly realizing that they're Jaskier's soft hands. His fingers are smothered in dirt, but with a stubborn undertone of chamomile and spring. It was that scent, a stubborn mesh of pleasant memories that had followed him faithfully for years, which held Geralt back from baring his teeth and _biting_ deep into the offending appendage. He glowers at his companion regardless, a growl tearing its way out of his throat as he jerks his mouth away. 

Blue eyes narrowed in response, and Jaskier promptly began waving a threatening finger in his face. "No swearing around the kids Geralt, or so _help me Gods_ , I will--!"

"You'll _what_ ," Geralt huffed out, "Sing me to sleep? Write a song? Wax angry poetry?"

Jaskier's cheeks went a truly alarming shade of red. For some reason, he wants to reach out and trace his cheekbones, to see if it's really as smooth as it looks. Geralt blinks. Gods, is he starting to hallucinate? Fuck, he needs to make more Golden Orioles--

The bard's finger jabs into his shoulder. " _You_ ," he hisses out, "Are an absolute _cad_ and I'm not inviting you to my name's day party even if you showed up dressed like a bunny." Then, he pauses. Jaskier starts to wiggle his eyebrows. "I mean, unless if you _do_ \--"

What. "Fuck off."

Jaskier glares then shoves his elbow into his side. It's extremely ineffective, and Geralt _relishes_ in the way the bard jerks away with a pained squeak. "What are you _made_ out of?"

Geralt hums thoughtfully, ignoring the warm swirl deep in his stomach. He ducks his head as a smile pulls at his lips, focusing on the rabbit in his hands as he whittles away at the fourth's pelt, "Something different from you."

Then, just because he can, the witcher bares his inch-long fangs. Maybe he could intimidate the bard into actually listening to his survival instincts, and to make him _shut up_ so he wouldn't be so _distracting_.

...There's silence. It's strange.

He's unnerved enough to chance a look up, and Jaskier's just. Staring at him. There's not a _dash_ of fear that reveals itself in his scent, his eyes aren't even _mildly_ dilated, and Geralt's sitting there; wondering if he's truly travelling with an idiot.

Gods, how did he manage to _survive_ for so long?

"Of course, as interesting as your blood-stained pearly-white grin is, Geralt, I do have to ask... Where are we actually going?"

...Ah.

Hm.

That wasn't the response he wanted.

Well, truth is, he had no idea. He was still dealing with the whole 'being followed by a trio of monster-siblings that are magically and emotionally connected to his bard, whose mother is now a hibernating bird hidden by moon magic in the Dragon Mountains' schtick.

Fuck, it sounds even stupider than he thought. And Lambert thinks _he_ has it tough.

And, _really_ , this just made his Path even harder than it already fucking was. He needs to tell him. He needs to make his bard realise that this can't work. He needs to straighten up his spine and tell Jaskier that he _needs_ to drop his 'kids' off at the nearest orphanage because he just _can't_ deal with this shit.

Geralt looks over at him. He opens his mouth.

Brilliant blue discs of the clearest summer sky stare up at him, creasing upwards with the force Jaskier's bright grin. A grin that's guileless and soft and _real_ , directed at _him_ of all people, and suddenly he just can't stand the thought of being the one that makes that innocent glee disappear.

...His chest feels achey. The kind of ache that comes from a good training session.

It's.. nice.

The witcher swallows, feeling a little faint as his fingers twitch. Fuck. He tries to articulate his thoughts one last time, but all that slips out is a wavering, "...Uh."

...Fuck.

He closes his mouth with a painful snap of his teeth.

Geralt doesn't grimace. He _doesn't._ Witchers don't _grimace_ because of fragile chicken-legged bards with baby griffins.

Jaskier snorts, snickering unabashedly at him, "Well, it's a good thing that I'm here, now isn't it? Truly, you'd be as lost as day old toddler without the aid of the Continent's greatest companion; _Jaskier!_ The almighty! The benevolent! The astounding! The true master behind the White Wolf's machinations--"

Yeah, alright. That's enough of that.

The witcher reaches out, a single hand enveloping the entirety of his bard's face. Abruptly, Geralt _pushes_. He watches with an exasperated fondness as Jaskier topples over at the slightest pressure, flopping shoulder first into the grass. Squawking indignantly, Rose squeaks out in alarm as she topples from his lap, rolling to a stop at Geralt's feet. Wiping the dirt off of his cheeks, Jaskier manages to prop himself up on his elbows and level him with an affronted _glare,_ "You're the needle in the haystack that mothers warn their children of. You know that, don't you?"

Leaning back, Geralt lets the faintest quirk of his lips show before looking at the half-skinned rabbit in his hand thoughtfully. Jaskier goes pale, fumbling backwards, "Don't you _dare--"_

He throws it at him.

 _"Geralt-!_ You absolute _dickhead--"_

"Language, lark."

"Oh, _fuck you_ , Geralt-- Rose, no, stop that-- no you can't eat that-- _ow,_ stop you little _termite_ \-- _OI!"_

"What would Twig say, Jaskier."

"She'd tear your cock off, that's what, _Rose, no_ \--"

"Hm."

Geralt, surrounded by monstrously idiotic baby griffins and Jaskier's voice, has never felt more at home.

"I hope Roach _pisses on your ashes,_ Geralt--"

Ah yes, the sweet sounds of peace.

"-Dipper, not you too!"

He should help him.

"-Geralt, help me, you brute!"

...Nevermind. He's fine.

"My _eye--!"_

Relatively.

* * *

Jaskier couldn't sleep. 

It took hours for him to clean the gristle and blood off after Geralt _smacked him with a skinned rabbit_ , so really, he should be sufficiently to fall asleep on the spot. The witcher's only a couple feet away and with Dipper and Rose are pressed up against his ribs, he's as warm as the average furnace, so there's really _no reason at all_ for him to be awake. But something nags at his mind; like there's just a piece of him missing.

The bard throws out his mind sloppily, trying to feel out for the familiar threads of his family. Rose's presence is a familiar whorl of fire, seeping warmth and passion. Dipper's is more muted, a cooling breeze that carries the gentle grit of alder. He gently strokes each string, love and adoration emanating from his every touch. Beside him, both griffins let out a soft sigh.

There's something out of place. If he concentrates, he can still feel Twig's familiar earth-quivering rumble, so why is he so--

Oh.

His eyes shoot open. He scans the campsite, desperately trying to pierce through the night's dark veil, but the only thing that stands out is the flickering coals on the fire.

Carefully sitting up, Jaskier peers into the darkness and looks for a familiar pile of ashy feathers. All he sees are Roach's and Geralt the Second's dark outlines against the grass. 

Ah, fuck.

Shrugging his way out of the body-pile, somehow managing to not wake either of his siblings, Jaskier blindly throws his hands out to pat the ground. Where the fuck are his boots, he could've _sworn--_

"Here."

Jaskier blinks as his boots are shoved in his face. He smiles. "Oh, thanks- wait, _GERALT THERE'S--"_

A hand covers his mouth, and that's when he notices Geralt's annoyed face peering down at him, still holding up the pair of shoes. "Be _quiet_ ," the witcher hisses, "Do you want to wake up the entire forest?"

Properly chided, Jaskier just smiles sheepishly up at him. He pokes at the witcher's hand, staring at him expectantly. Geralt sighs, as if the weight of the world were resting on his _fragile_ shoulders. "If I let go," he says slowly, "You have to be quiet. If you don't, I'll gag you."

Blinking his surprise away, Jaskier recovers enough to suggestively wiggle his eyebrows.

The witcher just scowls, then pulls his hand away. Immediately, the bard takes in a deep, very much exaggerated, gulp of air. Geralt rolls his eyes, turning away as he looks over the campsite thoughtfully. "...She's gone. Where's Alice?"

"Astute observation, my friend! And a worthy question."

"Jaskier."

He just shrugs, brows creasing in worry as he steps towards the treeline, "I don't know, Geralt. For some reason I can't hear her, or feel her, or... _anything_ , really. It's like she's just gone; poof! Into thin air!"

Geralt hums thoughtfully, golden gaze cutting through the darkness like a knife. "There's some tracks leading out. Look like hers, too. Go get her."

Logically, he knows how likely it is that Alice just wandered off to let out some of her anger; it wouldn't be the first time, really. Despite her ice queen behavior, she was the most... emotionally volatile of her siblings. It probably came from being the oldest, even if it _was_ only by a couple days. But something was _off_ , she never cut off her side of the mental connection when she wandered off. Even more, she never wandered off for more than a couple hours.

They'd been asleep for nearly the entire night. The moon was beginning to disappear behind the distant mountains. It was early morning, where the dew still clung to the leaves and the wind was calmest.

Jaskier feels something in his chest constrict painfully. A sudden realization makes his fingers feel like they're being covered in ice and, unknown to him, the clouds above began to _roil_.

"Geralt," he whispers quietly, every word dropping like an anchor. " _Geralt_ , we're near a hunting village."

The witcher frowns, looking back at him strangely, "And?"

He feels like he's going to faint, "It's _hunting season_."

Geralt froze. "The hunters..."

Whatever the witcher plans to say, he's interrupted by a loud, ear-splitting screech echoing from the depths of the woods.

_Alice._

He hardly has time for a coherent thought before the spool connecting him to his siblings unravels. Jaskier topples to his knees with a silent scream as sheer _pain_ that lances through his veins. Alice's desolate thread blazing back to life with a vengeance, and he can barely hear his siblings jerk awake behind him with _agonized wails_ \--

Something's wrong. She's hurt. She's- she's bleeding and cauterizing at the same time, she's--

Fire. She's surrounded by _fire._

Jaskier gasps painfully as he chokes on the air, biting down on his clenched fist as he tries to beat back the spots filling his vision. He needs- he needs to block Alice's connection to Rose and Dipper. She's in trouble. He has to _help her--_

Distantly, he hears Geralt drop down in the dirt next to him, hands holding up his shoulders. Usually, the bard would be excited about his latest breakthrough.

Now, though, all he feels is mind-numbing fear.

Alice is gone. Alice is in trouble. Alice is _burning_. He feels the fire in his feathers, caressing against his skin and breaking through his scales. He feels the smoke filling his nostrils, the cry that's stuck in his beak, the arrow lodged in his hind leg. He feels fear and terror and so much _pain_ , wondering if she'll ever see his family again, if _she'll_ ever come back and ask Jaskier to sing and say sorry and to hug her little sister and-, and--

"-Jaskier--"

The ground disappears and eyes that aren't his are burning in the smoke. He's she, and she's _screaming into the air_ , wings stretched and painfully tied to her sides in something she can't break. Her beak is clamped shut by some strong grey thing. Her mind races, she knows what it is, the violet-eyed one knew what it was, she just needs to find it, it's there in her brain, she just, _just_ \-- something smacks the back of her head and all thoughts stop. _Muzzle,_ she realizes distantly, _it's a muzzle--_

_"-Jaskier! Focus on me, for fucks' sake!"_

The connection snaps, and he's sent hurtling back into his body. Jaskier lurches forward, hands barely managing to catch himself on the ground as a choked wheeze tore its way out of his hoarse throat. In a moment, Geralt's in the dirt next to him- rubbing soothing circles along his back while the bard retches into the grass. He kneels there for a while longer, tears clinging to his eyelashes and his fingers curling into the dirt.

_Alice._

"Jaskier?"

That's his sister. His _baby_ sister. They smoked her out of the tree she was hiding in, then shot her. They _muzzled_ her. They _hurt_ her. 

Beneath his skin, something coils and hisses in the pit of his stomach. Something entirely different burns in his veins now; a violent sense of _feral wilderness_ , like the raging snarls of a bear-mother. He'd felt it when he saved Rose, felt it when he cut through Przerażenie's windpipe. 

Above him, the moon stills in the sky.

Jaskier stands up, fingers hooked into claws and Twig's familiar rumble echoing in the confines of his mind. He stares fearlessly into a smoldering gaze of molten gold, face morphed into an expression of pure wrath _._

"Stay with Rose and Dipper, Geralt."

The witcher glowers at him, a growl resounding from deep within his chest, "Fuck off."

Hands steady, Jaskier feels his lips pull back into a thunderous scowl as Alice's screams echo between his ears. "You can't tell me what to do when it comes to my family _,_ witcher."

"You're going to get yourself killed, Jaskier." Geralt stalks forward, looming over him as the gravel of his voice forces the air to quiver. "Then it'll be _me_ that'll have to get you out of it. I'm going."

Jaskier breathes out through his nose, something primal threatening to tear its way through his fragile skin. A flash of amber eyes, azure feathers burning like fire in the sun, beak stained crimson dripping with _blood-blood-blood--_

Clouds drop to the earth, fog and mist swirling between the trees. The air is chilling, heavy with the scent of a coming storm, and the stars glow _red_.

The next time his mouth opens, it lets out a voice that isn't his own. Something thrums through his bones, stretching malleable flesh into something _unconquerable_ and _unbending_. Bone is replaced with iron, blood with silver and weakness with strength.

Jaskier talks, but it's Twig who _speaks._

"She is mine, little wolf, and you'd be wise to remember that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did u guys know that this was actually inspired from how to train your dragon and my general unquenchable thirst for flying in fantasy and also a little bit of owls of ga'hoole because honestly my brain is just a thot that cant stick to one franchise
> 
> also i tried to do a thing. multiple things. art things that i worked on between work. there is a very very minor chance that an old classmate might see this picture and realise that i make fanfics. for his favourite franchise. that i havent played or researched the lore of for like 2 years  
> WELL IM SURE IT'LL BE FINE RIGHT GUYS  
> [momma birb](https://imgur.com/a/1KN2But)  
> [baby birb](https://imgur.com/ZoTfSq6)
> 
> I LOVE YOU ALL THANKS FOR READING, I'VE SAID THIS ONCE AND I'LL SAY IT AGAIN: I DONT DESERVE U WHOLESOME BEANS LIKE. AT ALL


	10. Rodzina

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's something in the woods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's a big chapter guys dont be too angry pls im innocent  
> ppl want music to listen to. i have bad music tastes but like heY OK I CAN DO THAT  
> [kloud - humans](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Carbe7kC7uA)  
> [calivania - DOOM](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b2Oe4OwNXow)  
> [xChenda x Lola Rhodes - If You Really Want It](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nsee3d-KAXk)  
> [the song we all listen to whenever geralt and jaskier get screentime](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3pxeXWYQbWI)

Twig is tired. Twig is angry. Twig is _annoyed_. "You are _staying,_ boy. Protect my youngest hatchlings, Jaskier will go to retrieve my foolish daughter."

It's the only logical choice so why, oh _why_ , couldn't he understand that?

"Jaskier will _die._ " Geralt bares his teeth like a wolf, eyes glinting like steel as he tries to loom over her. It's so ineffective that Twig nearly rolls her eyes right out of her skull. "You think he'll survive in there? He's _Jaskier,_ " he hisses the word out as if it's a curse, "He'll topple over his own stack of shit within seconds, and then it'll be _me_ that has to dig him out of it." 

She winces as a pulse of agony lances through her veins, Jaskier's emotions running rampant as they dart between hurt, misery and resignation. _He's right,_ her son whispers, _I can't do it, Alice deserves better than me, but I need to see her, Twig, I can't stand here and... and--_

_No, son, **no**. You are enough; you are more than enough. You are more than what this man thinks of you, and you are more than his own beliefs._

Jaskier's soft words do nothing to ease the ache in her chest, the sheer darkness of his emotions manifesting in her heart like a thorny root. _Twig- it's okay. Just let it go._

She clicks her teeth together, eerily reminiscent of the sounds of her clacking beak, and something sorrowful consumes her. How lonely must this man be, to not know just how _wonderful_ her son is? Just how long has this man, barely older than her feathers, been so jaded? Twig thinks of an existence without love; without children, without Alice's fresh kills, or Dipper's flower bundles, or Rose's warm hugs, or Jaskier's singing.

It's a sad, empty world. It reminds her of a lonely nest on the side of a cliff, devoid of joy and the air as cold as the crescent moon. Is this man what she could've been, without the _life_ Jaskier brought her? Is this what she would've turned into, without her hatchlings to keep her company?

For all of his snarling and blistering words, Geralt looks so lost; so _scared_ of them all. It makes her heart twist.

"He is Jaskier," Twig acknowledges quietly. "And he is a gift. To me, to my children and to _you_ , little wolf."

"I don't need anyone."

Twig breathes in deeply through her nose, feeling the thrum of Jaskier's hurt resignation vibrate along her bones. _He doesn't want me, does he?_

_Child, of course he does--_

_Don't-_ her son sighs, the invisible breath pushing against the keratin in her ears, _don't lie to me, Twig. Don't... don't give me hope, where there's none to find it. It's... I just want my sister. I just want my little sister safe._

Her heart _aches_. 

She straightens her spine, glaring down at the witcher through her son's cornflower blue eyes, fingers curled into claws as a low hiss whistles through her lips. She watches with predatory eyes as his shoulders hunch up defensively, a crease forming between his brows. He's cautious of her.

Good. He has every right to be.

" _I welcome my sentence,_ " She sings softly. When she smiles, it's sharp and dangerous and _cutting,_ " _Give to you my penance; gorgeous garroter, jury and judge._ " Geralt reels back, teeth grinding against each other as the words ricochet in his head. Memories of the mountain; of cutting words, raw emotion and hurting the one person he'd always protected.

Her son's voice is so sweet; so lilting and melodic. It cuts into the witcher like a knife through butter, and Twig _revels_.

When she opens her mouth to speak next, the familiar crumble of the earth echoes with the scraping of tectonic plates; a frightening contrast to Jaskier's satin song. "You, of all people, will not lecture me on my son's _worth_. I will not forget the reason why he stumbled upon my nest in the first place, _wolfling._ "

He freezes, hackles raising and shoulders going rigid with the underlying tension. Geralt works his jaw, adam's apple bobbing up and down his throat while his gloves begin to squeak in protest at his shaking fists.

_Twig, stop._

"I have trusted you to protect Jaskier." She stares unblinkingly, the shadows falling over Jaskier's face and turning the soft curves into jagged edges. "But do not read my tolerance as lenience, cub. If you fail me, I'll ensure that you won't be able to make that mistake twice _."_

_-Twig, please, you have to stop! You've said enough, he gets it--_

Twig snarls, both in voice and in conscience. She pointedly shoves off her son's cries, her temper rising up and cresting against her throat as she towers over the frozen witcher. "As of today; as of now; as of the day you _dared_ to draw steel before me, you exist only to _protect. My. Children_."

He unfreezes and, with a monstrous roar, rises up to meet her anger with a seething rage of his own. "If you're so hell-bent on keeping them alive, then do it yourself," Geralt hisses out, golden eyes flashing dangerously in the light, "I never said yes to playing _caretaker_."

_-Stop it! You're hurting him--_

Twig feels the organ in her chest hammer away, as small and fragile as the son it belongs to. She counts every heartbeat, every breath-- everything that serves as a reminder that he is _alive._

She still remembers him falling from the sky, even now. A speck of colour against an endless stretch of grey; lonely and dying and _falling so fast--_

It was the first time she realised just how _different_ her son was from her. How, the same one to befall the great Przerażenie could die in the same breath. It terrified her then, and it terrifies her now; how she's trusting the lives of her children in the hands of this stranger, this _witcher_.

A stranger who talks to her son like he is a blight. A witcher who treats her earthbound child like a _burden_. 

It irks her. It angers her. It makes her crave for his _blood_. 

Jaskier is a droplet of sunlight from the heavens; he is the glow of warmth that filters through the leaves, and the spring breeze that ruffles through her feathers. He is _bright_ and _loving_ and _life_ and he is one of the greatest treasures of _her life_. And this man _spits on him_ , like he's a newborn hatchling that still struggles to stand. Just the very thought makes the fury bubble up in her throat again; the thought of watching Jaskier flinch, of _feeling_ his embarrassment one last time...

"You will treat him like he is worth something _, wolfling_."

Geralt goes still, all of his burning emotions disappearing beneath a stone-cold facade. It's almost painful, how quickly all expression is wiped clean; the furrow eases, his brows knit together and his teeth clench against each other. His heavy breaths turn into slow, steady huffs-- heat misting up.

The threat goes unsaid, but hangs in the silence like a sword over his throat. _Take care of him,_ it says, _or I will take him from you._

 _-Mother! That, is,_ **_enough._ **

Twig stops. _Child, he must learn--_

Jaskier's anger sweeps over her like a heatwave, an uncomfortable warmth prickling at her skin. _He is my dearest friend, my longest companion, and a_ good man _despite what you all think. I'm not some... toy that you can take away from him when he's being a massive dick!_

She flinches, her arms slowly falling limp at her sides as she tries to reign her emotions back in. Twig sends soft waves of reassurance; of love and care and family down the thread connecting her to her son. _You are more than a toy; you are my dearest treasure. Forgive me, little one. Please, forgive me._

Jaskier hums soothingly, little thrums of affection echoing down the line. _Always, Twig. But maybe you should say sorry to the man you just threatened to kill?_

Twig scowls. _No._

_Twig._

She bares her teeth, glaring at the space above Geralt's head. _He can kiss my ass--_

_Twig! Who taught you that language?_

_Who do you_ think _, Jaskier._

_I knew Alice was a bad influence on you all. But, regardless, I'm not going to forgive you until you say sorry to Jaskier, so there._

_Jaskier._

_Nope._

Twig sighs. Her wrath all but forgotten, she lets the tension ease out of her body, turning back to the frozen witcher. His hands were quivering at his sides, spine as taut as a bowstring, and a strange gleam to his golden gaze. Her mouth opens and closes, trying to find the words she wants, before a deep, rasping voice interrupts her. "Don't. Don't take him away. Please."

Her brows shoot up. "Oh?" She hums quietly, "And why shouldn't I? You always complain about how troublesome he is, I thought you'd think of it as a blessing."

Geralt's jaw tightens at the word, face stretching into a stoic scowl before it softens. "He's special."

"Of course he is," Twig scoffs, even as the weight in her chest threatens to ease. Maybe there's hope for him yet. "He's special to me, to his siblings, and to everyone around him. What I want to know, is how he is special to _you_."

"I-," The witcher wets his cracked lips, forehead scrunching up as he struggles to actually _talk_ about his feelings. "I can't lose him. He's a friend. A dear friend. My... my closest friend?" Geralt says it like he's only just realized, his jaw going slack while a childlike awe wipes away his frustration.

She stares at him with eyes more cutting than silver. Geralt gazes back, the uncertainty giving way to an unreadable expression that straightens his back. His hands still, feet planting themselves firmly in the dirt. "If Jaskier wants to leave, then fine. But it's his decision, not yours."

The tension is thick, but the sudden burst of pure tenderness that emanates from Jaskier is enough to crack away Twig's stony visage, and a gentle smile alighting on her features. She steps forward, planting a warm hand on Geralt's shoulder and giving it a firm squeeze. "Perhaps I made the right choice after all, then."

And, just like that, Twig disappears and Jaskier's back in his body.

Geralt blinks. The bard blinks back. He jerks his hand away, eyes wider than saucers, while the witcher turns away with a choked cough. The not-so-little hatchlings watch the exchange with wide-eyed laughter, teasing squawks filling the clearing as the men practically _leap_ away from each other.

"So, uh--" Clearing his throat, Jaskier tries not to focus on the heat in his face. "So I'm just... going to go? And, um, get Alice. Yeah."

"Fuck. Alright." Geralt rolls his shoulder, pointedly looking everywhere else but him. "Do you, uh... need a knife?" He idly picks at one of the buckles on his pauldron. He's not fidgeting. Witchers don't _fidget_.

Jaskier scratches the back of his head, ignoring the warmth climbing up his neck. "N-no, I'm-- I'm good. Can I just, uh..." He juts a thumb at Alice's footprints, hidden behind the witcher's immense stature. Fuck, he's hot.

_Big brother has a cruuuuuuush! OoOoOO~!_

_Rose,_ Jaskier grimaces, _shut the fuck up._

_Mom, he said a bad word--_

"Right. Yes." Geralt steps out of the way of the tracks. He holds out a small steel dagger as the bard goes to stride past. "Just in case."

He stares at it for a moment, before a smile works his way onto his face. "Just in case," Jaskier echoes softly, grabbing the leather-bound handle.

_Snowy and Jassy, sitting in a tree--_

Geralt stares at him for a bit, then wisely chips in with a bland, "You stab them with the _other_ end."

_\--K-I-S-S-I-N-G!_

The bard heaves out a loud sigh, and simply holds out his middle finger for all to see. Geralt huffs, golden eyes warmer than sunlight, and Jaskier feels something flip in his stomach.

Gas? Probably gas.

He turns to leave, steeling his spine and steadying his breath as he looks out into the the woods. Alice is still out there, getting dragged away in chains while he dawdles in this stupid clearing. Jaskier reaches down to his pack, pulling out the traveling cloak he had stored away and throwing it over his shoulders. He tucks the dagger up his sleeve, then rummages through the bag for a couple seconds longer before his fingers touch cold glass. He pulls it out.

Ground red oleander. He tucks it into his doublet pocket, and rises.

He'd do anything to protect Alice; even murder.

"Jaskier."

The bard looks up, brows knitting together as his nerves got the best of him. "Missing me already?"

Geralt's lips twitch before flattening out into a tight line. He crouches down next to him, reaching out with a calloused hand that rested heavily on Jaskier's shoulder. "Come back safely. If you're not back within the next two days, I'll haul you both out of there myself."

"Is that an offer? Oh, perhaps I'll just seductively drape myself over the innkeeper's table and wait for your rescue with _bated_ breath."

"Fuck off, Jaskier. Get Alice back. _Safely._ "

"Boo, you're no fun!"

* * *

Unlike Geralt, Jaskier doesn't have any particular... _stigmas_ that'd forbid him from entering the town as he is. So, it is with great relish that the bard walks through the debilitated half-hanging gates and flaunts his way through the night. The streets, laden with mud and the heavy stench of piss, are strangely empty; no lights shine through the windows, the tavern- if there even was one- is dark and lonely. A thin mist stretched from lamp-post to lamp-post, moonlight filtering through the faint trails like smoke.

Great. Combined with dickhead hunters, the place is also now officially _creepy as shit_. Thanks, Life, as if it weren't enough of a bitch already.

He sighs. Focus on the plan, _focus._ The plan is simple, even he can't fuck it up. Maybe. Hopefully.

Jaskier walks in, strolls over to Alice, unlocks her cage and promptly gets her out. See? Easy breezy, _lemon squeezy_.

He hears a rustle in the bushes next to the gates, and he very nearly startles out of his skin before a cute rabbit tumbles out from the leaves. Jaskier crouches down, holding out a hand to the small curious creature as it sniffles at him. The bard smiles, laughing quietly, "Hey there, little guy--"

Jaskier blinks and, rather suddenly, there's blood on his fingers and an arrow impaling the rabbit. Uh.

 _Hm_.

He feels bile rising up his throat, the bard scrambling away on his hands and knees as the small critter squeaks and chokes on its own blood. Black beady eyes remained fixed on him as it claws at the open air in desperation before, slowly, the life in its eyes dims and the creature falls limp. Jaskier trembles in mute horror as he stares at its cooling body, fingers twitching in the dirt.

Okay, so- that was rather traumatizing. 

He stands up on shaky legs, tearing his eyes away from the mangled corpse as he looks around for the shooter. 

Gods, he definitely should've brought Geralt. If nothing else, Jaskier could just hide and watch the witcher beat the opposition into the dirt from a distance that will let him watch that lovely bottom _bounce_. It's captivating. It just makes such... fluid motions, and truly, is that a part of the mutations or is that just a _Geralt_ thing--?

Wait. Stop that.

Jaskier slaps his cheeks. He needs to _focus._ Rescue little sister, _then_ fantasize about the ass. When he gets back to camp, he can watch it in real life.

He decides not to think too hard about the fact that Geralt's ass is the one thing that stops him from breaking down after watching a _rabbit_ _bleed to death._

Oh, that's a _wonderful_ plan. He likes that one. The campfire just accentuates it so perfectly, makes all the curves _pop_ and the tight leather pants really do something-- 

"Oi' there! Who are you meant to be?"

"Oh, uh," --shit-fuck-crap-ass-oh no--, Jaskier tries not to swallow too loudly as he turns, a pot-bellied man wandering up to him with beady deepset eyes. "Greetings, sir! I am the renowned _Jaskier!_ Famed bard of taverns, courts and inns all over the Continent!"

The watchman squints up at him, fingers twitching around the hilt of his sword. "Ain't heard o' no Jaskier, 'cept for that cunt that licks that witcher's balls."

Shit.

Jaskier's eye twitches. Well then.

"Surely you jest, good sir!" The bard ignores the rage burning in the pit of his belly, casting subtle looks around him as he searched for a way out of the alley, "The one witcher I met was a show-killer, why-ever would I deign one worthy to write songs over? Do I _look_ like a money-grabber to you?"

He grunts. "Yes." Then, he draws his sword.

That's not good, should he run? He's going to run away, like, _right now--_

"Oh, Jaskier! There you are, I've been looking for you _everywhere_ , young man!" A huge woman appears at the alley's entrance, perhaps rivaling even _Geralt's_ height, looking frantic as she scurries over to grab his arm. She levels him with a stern glower, swatting at his shoulder, "Mother has been worried sick!"

Uh. "What--"

She jerks his arm, pointedly cutting him off while a wide, pained grin stretches over her face. "Oh, nevermind that! We really must be going, I'm ever-so-sorry, Marx, I'll make sure he doesn't do this again when he next visits! I'll see you at the gather tomorrow, yes? Good, good-- have a nice evening!" The watchman sputtered, brows knitting together as he tries to follow after them. "W-wait! Hanna, he's--"

Hanna practically drags him away at this point, hoisting him around corners at breakneck speeds as she absently waves a hand behind her. "Good _night_ , Marx!"

Marx's complaints soon fade away, losing him in a labyrinth of buildings. A couple more minutes, they finally stop for breath, Hanna anxiously looking around before tucking the pair of them against the shadows of a nearby house. "Sorry, but they were going to kill you. Travelers don't come here for a reason, stranger. You're lucky it was Marx that found you- Melitele knows he's about as competent as a dead cat."

Jaskier wipes the sweat on his forehead away, his galloping heart-beat slowing as he heaves out a loud, incredulous laugh, "He was going to _stab_ me. I didn't even... _do anything!"_

Hanna clasps his shoulder, green eyes harder than emeralds before a hiss slips past her lips at him. "Stay _quiet_ , Jaskier, or do you want to die? --Actually, don't answer that. Come with me." As she reaches over to grab his arm again, Jaskier jerks away and levels her with a scorching glare. "I can't _stay for tea,_ there's someone who needs me--"

"Let me guess," she cuts in abrasively, "The griffin. You want the griffin. Great. I'll take you to the griffin; as long as you _shut up_ and _follow me_."

...Huh.

Okay then.

This will either be extremely lucrative, or extremely stupid and he might die. 

"Well, then what are we waiting for? Lets go, mysterious alley lady!"

Oh well! Adventure is afoot!

* * *

Adventure is definitely not afoot.

In fact, stepping into a hut that could barely be considered a _hut_ , he just feels... awkward.

Jaskier shifts, the wood creaking at the slight movements. Hanna collapses into a beaten chair, dust billowing out from its ragged cushions. For the longest of moments, they just stare at each other blankly.

"Who'd you bring home this time, Hanna dear?" Jaskier startles at the hoarse voice that rings out behind him, the man stumbling forward before he whips around with wide eyes. A frail elderly woman regards him warmly, armed with deep-set wrinkles and a sturdy wooden cane to help support her hunch-back.

He quickly dips down into a bow, before popping back upright with a strained grin. "I'm Jaskier, my lovely lady! I am but a humble bard, searching far and wide for his stupid, silly sister, who seems to have washed up in this beautiful town of yours."

Hanna snorts. "Beautiful, sure. It used to be, once upon a time before those damned _hunters_ showed up."

The old woman hobbled her way to the only other spare chair in the room, Jaskier ghosting along behind her until she carefully lowered herself to the worn cushions, "Sweetheart, be polite to your guests. Be a love and set us some tea, won't you?" 

Standing, Hanna gives her a respectful bow of her head before skirting around them and disappearing into the kitchen, "Of course, Baba."

Jaskier sat down in the opposite chair, a whorl of questions swimming in his brain. "W-wait, so... The hunters haven't always been here? But they're _everywhere_ , the whole reason why I avoided this town in the first place was because you were a hunting village."

Baba hums, bones cracking as she leans back into the chair, "We are herbalists. Many ingredients grew within our forest, some magical and some not, which we supplied to apothecaries throughout Redania. Novigrad and Oxenfurt, mostly, and Tretegor when the Grand Tretorian was coming. We were never hunters, we only wished to grow. We sung songs to the trees, nurtured the plants, gave offerings to the rivers, and the forest always rewarded us. The monsters left us alone, so we gathered their shed feathers and baby teeth for alchemy, and we lived. Peacefully _._ For... many, many years."

His brows creased together, a small drop of empathy ringing through his bones, "What changed? How did you go from that to... _this?_ "

With rickety fingers, Baba reached out to grab her cane, tracing the grooves in the wood as a heavy sigh rocked her frame. "A mage."

Jaskier's jaw tightens. Mages. _Of course_. He feels something bubble up in his chest, a deep unease and discomfort.

It... It couldn't have been Yennefer, could it?

"She rode into town one day," Baba droned on, eyes lost and faraway, never once noticing Jaskier's sudden discomfort. "For the first couple nights, she just wanted shelter and herbs. Then, she started talking to the young ones, boys and girls who didn't know any better, and she found out about the forest." Her fingers curled into the armrest, thin nails digging deep into the scuffed leather. "She started _taking_ _things_. She stole our offerings of copper and balisse fruits, thieved from bushels too young to grow back, then killed one of the griffins roasting along the cliffs."

"-Then the Bitchening happened, and the fucker dragged the corpse back to town, demanding compensation. When we wouldn't give it to her, she left the bodies in the town square and left. A week later, the _hunters_ came," Hanna spat as she prowled back into the living room, balancing a set of steaming cups on a chipping, wooden tray. Jaskier nodded his thanks as she handed him a cup, and she stepped back to stand next to her grandmother.

Baba rested a hand on Hanna's tense arm, soothingly running her thumb over her coiled muscles. "They're a free company, they told us. Hired to _protect us_ from the monsters in the forest. Their leader hunted down the rest of the griffins, then starved and beat them into imprisonment within the townhall dungeons. Whenever one of us spoke against them, they threw us into the cage to make a lesson out of it as we watched one of our own get eaten alive."

"And now," Hanna continues, tension lining her shoulders and pulling her lips taut, "They like making _games_ , you see. They've built a nice, confined enclosure around the forest, trapping all the wargs inside. Whenever they get bored, they stand up on the ramparts and chuck a couple grapeshots in. They like watching the little pups _burn alive_ , the sadistic _cunts_ , but after that-- oh, that's when they have _fun_."

He was almost too afraid to ask, but he pushed on regardless. "What are they doing?"

She smiles, and it's a hateful, bloodthirsty thing. "The hunters round us up every few day. A gathering, they call it. Then, one of us gets chucked over the fence. Sometimes they get eaten immediately. Sometimes, it's well into the night until we _finally_ hear the screaming, and the _crunch_ of bone. Of course, usually it's one of us, but... they don't take too kindly to strangers on their territory. Would you like to take a guess at who they're throwing over next, little bird?"

Jaskier felt his heart stop. "I- wha-- me?! I've only been here for an hour! _Barely_ an hour!"

Stalking over to him, Hanna leans in close as she traps him between her arms. Something wild and demanding shines like fresh blood in her eyes, and the beginnings of a snarl curl her wine-red lips. "You think they care? But worry not, birdie, I've got a plan. And _you're_ helping me."

"Do I, uh," he swallows loudly, pressing himself as far back into the chair as he can. "...Do I get a choice in this?"

"Depends, do you want your sister back alive or not?"

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Jaskier grinds his teeth together to stop him from lurching forward and breaking her nose. "Is that a _threat_ , Hanna?"

She glares back down at him with simmering jade eyes, the fine curves of her brows slanting downwards just-so as a nearly feral growl rips out of her throat, "You're not the only one with family to protect, birdie. I'll do whatever it takes to keep them safe, and I'll do it with or _without_ you."

He leans back, breathing out through his nose as a sigh threatens to slip free. He already knows what his answer is; he'd do anything for his little sister, _anything_ to keep her safe and to keep her alive and to keep her with him. 

_- **Alice** \--_

"Fine. What's the plan, _milady."_

When Hanna smiles, it isn't pretty. It's dark and terrifying, lined with sharp edges and arrow-tips. "I'm so glad you asked, little bird."

**_-Stay safe._ **

* * *

Really, he's impressed mainly by how quickly the hunters got it done. Barely a day after talking with Hanna and Baba, he was very promptly tied up then lobbed over the fence in front of dozens of horrified villagers. He almost feels humbled, you know, because of how heartbroken they all looked. Minus Hanna, who was giving him a very convincing thumbs-up behind a tree.

Honestly, she's about as subtle as a mountain lion.

Good thing Jaskier's not a fucking idiot. In good time, he fished out the knife hidden in his doublet and cut himself loose. Being a witcher's travel companion teaches you how to get out of bindings very, _very_ fast.

Then, he starts running.

It was dark. The fog had settled snugly against the forest floor, twisting through the thick trunks and the hanging vines as an ominous sheet of grey hid him from sight. The moon was still hanging stubbornly in the sky, an ominous splotch of black against a red-dotted canvas.

Jaskier wonders if this is what Geralt feels like when he drinks his potions. Out of his element, wondering if the monster will strike now or later. Waiting. _Hunted_.

He hopes not because, quite frankly, it feels _awful_.

The bard leaps from shade to shadow, shrouded in a perpetual sheet of blackness as crimson moonlight filters in through the foliage. He jerks to a stop as the slightest sound of crunching leaves echoes impossibly loudly in the silence. He presses himself against a tree, ignoring the bark digging into his skin as he thumbs the handle of his dagger. He needs to get to the west wall- a ladder. Hanna said there'd be a ladder there, Jaskier just needs to _get there--_

Another twig snaps. The branches rustle. The wind whistles.

Hanna said that, before the hunters, the wargs had been friendly. Not tame, per-say, but willing to look the other way. It's this hope; this _chance;_ this _sliver of luck_ that he relies on now, bursting back into motion as he sprints in a random direction and hopes that it's the right one. 

Low-hanging branches lash out at his face, dragging wooden claws against soft skin as they leave red tracks against his neck and cheeks. Jaskier watches his feet, skipping around jutting stones and twisting roots as he leaps through bush after bush. He hears the soft thump of footfalls behind him, closing in so _slowly_ that he thinks, if he can just get there in time, _he'd have a chance--_

Jaskier leaps out of the bushes, pulling free of the vines clinging to his arms, and his heart drops. The cracked wall is barren, layered in mud and blood and, for a moment, the bard entertains the thought that maybe Hanna lied. He turns manic eyes to the stars, stumbling away from the forest edge as he tries to navigate his way-- surely, _surely_ she'll be here in a minute?

His eyes finally catch where Orion's stars are hanging in the sky. As the wargs emerge from the woods, Jaskier crumples to his knees and groans. _South._ He went fucking _south._ No wonder Hanna wasn't there, because she was where they were _actually meant to meet, fuck-fuck-fuck--_

Fear presses against his chest, the moon cracking like black marble in the sky above him, but all he can think is _Alice-Alice-Alice-Alice--_

Massive wolven shapes circle him from within the fog and, in the center of the ring, a monstrously huge shape steps towards him.

The mists part almost reverently as a scarred warg, legs thicker than most _trees_ , bares bloodstained teeth at him. Scars litter its white-furred body, vicious gouges around their snouts, burn marks, and scabbed over arrow-wounds layered all over its hind-legs. As if on cue, the other wargs step towards him, spittle and snarls tearing through their jowls as they snap at him. All of them were covered in similar injuries, each in various states of scarring.

Well, he thinks manically, at least he's getting eaten by the big one.

They certainly look starved and beaten enough to confirm what Hanna told him. Some of the animals were missing entire legs, and shrapnel from the bombs were still lodged in their pelt. The moonlight caught the glints of sharp steel, reflecting the rust and blood back to him. It was... quite macabre, really.

Oh.

_Oh._

"Hunting farm," Jaskier whispers, realisation finally dawning. "They turned the forest into a _monster hunting farm_."

Holy fuck.

Maybe he should've brought Geralt along after all.

His jaw tightened, teeth creaking in protest as he glares balefully off into the darkness. 

_Alice._

Crimson light flowed over him, air particles and falling leaves swirling like a zephyr. The trees creaks ominously, loud groans of cracking bark and swaying branches filling the air with sudden noise. The moon was a beacon of scorching white light against a sea of roiling black, speckled with drops of vengeful red. Jaskier feels his breath catch in his throat, the world slipping away from him as he desperately clawed for Alice's thread. It was a limp line of grey, fraying at the edges as painful twangs vibrated down the string. If he listens hard enough, he can still hear her--

_Jaskier-Jaskier-Jaskier-I'm sorry-come back for me-Jaskier--_

_Gods_. Gods above, what the fuck are they doing to her?

He feels blood drip from his fingers as his nails dig into his palms. Something rises in his chest, swelling like an ocean. The glimmering steel of the dagger was a soothing cold against his wrist and, for the first time in his life, Jaskier wants nothing more than to stain it crimson.

Jaskier opens his eyes, swirling blue staring into wine-red irises.

The alpha's head was twice the size of the bard's own, a mile-long mouth filled with fangs thicker than his fingers. It breathes out, smelling of flesh blood and rot, before a rumble vibrates in it's throat. 

_-Jaskier- it hurts--_

When he speaks, it's with a painful rasp that scrapes against his throat like sandpaper. He feels something echo in his voice, something that reminds him of stone grinding against steel. "If I free you," Jaskier starts slowly; meaningfully. "Will you spare anyone?"

It raises it's head, silver fur gleaming as the moonlight skims soothing fingers over old scars. The alpha steps closer, head hanging low and a threatening growl lodged deep in its throat. _Perhaps,_ those eyes seem to tell, _but that's not yours to know._

_-Jaskier, would you kill for me--_

_-I'd drown the **world,** Alice--_

Jaskier lets the knife slip out of his sleeve, ignoring the snarls of the pack-wargs. He tosses it away, an unholy sense of rage spreading through his veins as he holds his hand up, reaching out towards the fur-clad leviathan in front of him and leaving it suspended in the air between them. "Please, _help me_."

 _Kill who you want,_ he begs, _just don't kill_ her _._

_-Get me out, please please please- there's another griffin- I'm scared--_

_-Alice, Alice I'm here, don't be scared, I'm coming, I'm coming--_

He waits. And waits. And _waits._ He stands there, eyes shut, until his muscles ache and his arms protest. Then, he waits some more. He _needs_ them. He's not a witcher, he's not Geralt-- he doesn't have _decades_ of fighting on his belt with enough mutations to kill a herd of cows, he's just a _bard._ A bard with a broken lute and siblings that _need him_.

And what his sister needs from him, right now, is a fucking rescue mission. Gods, _Alice, you silly goose, why did she leave--_

Alice-- _Alice--_ he needs _to--_

He can't fail, he can't--

_-Big brother--_

**_-Alice--_ **

He feels the barest touch of fur against his bloody hands.

Jaskier's eyes shoot open. He stares incredulously at the warg pressing it's- no, _her-_ snout against his palm, a feeling of bubbly elation bursting to life in his chest. The bard feels _something_ brush against his psyche, hesitantly opening up his awareness as a foreign thought is pushed persistently against his mind.

 _Skala_. Her name is Skala.

"O-okay," Jaskier stutters out, the slightest smile appearing on his face. "Okay. Together then, Skala."

He blinks as she pulls away, only to stumble back as Skala rears back to release a loud, echoing howl that ricochets off trees and deeper into the woods. Jaskier's mouth parts in awe as, one by one, the wargs around him join. He puffs out a surprised laugh as wolves from within the confines of the forest join in the song; all the noise melding into a building crescendo as Skala requests-- no, _demands_ their loyalty.

The sound tapers off, leaving an unnerving _quiet_ that hung eerily in the air. Then, he heard the sounds of twigs snapping underfoot _everywhere_ around him, the deft thumps of heavy paws against grass coming _closer_ and _closer._ He turns, stepping towards Skala as the darkness between the trees fills with dozens- no, _hundreds_ of vermilion slitted eyes.

Well, that's terrifying.

He rests his hand against Skala's neck, trying to draw on her stone-faced calm in the face of countless predators. She rumbles soothingly, sounding so similar to Twig that something in his heart _aches_.

She tilts her head at him, before slowly kneeling on the ground beside him. Jaskier jerks back as if burned, wide eyes staring back at her. "M-me? You want me to... h-hop on?"

Skala just blinks, blowing hot air out of her nostrils.

An unbeatable _predator_ \-- a remnant of the old world, the embodiment of nature's expertise Pre-Conjunction. Kneeling to _him_ , of all people. It makes his heart beat oddly in his chest, and Jaskier wonders if this is what Geralt feels like every time he walks away from a fight, victorious. Dangerous, powerful, wanted, _uncontrollable._

Jaskier, despite all appearances, doesn't want to be powerful. He's surrounded by predators, by witchers and witches and griffins bigger than the sky; things who could kill him in an instant if they so wanted to. He sees how lonely they are when night comes, the fire burning low as they stare at world that's too terrified of them to stare back. It's... sad. They always look so _lost._

Sometimes though, he wonders. What's it like to be strong? To be deadly, covered in blood and gristle, daunting and untouchable?

He wonders if Skala knows what that's like. He wonders if, _maybe_ , taming her would make him like that too.

Jaskier realises now, though, that it doesn't. He never tamed Twig- he befriended her. He never tamed his siblings- he cared for them, named them family and _loved them_. He never tamed Geralt, would never even entertain the thought of it.

He just loved them. Truly, wholly, _deeply_ loved every piece of them.

But, he's learned so _much_ since then. 

These... These hunters' wanton brutality, breeding monsters just to torture them; just for _entertainment_. That's not love. That's just _wrong._ He looks at Skala's eyes and sees Geralt, stoned at the village gates once his hunt is finished. He looks at Skala's scars and sees empty golden eyes, cracking with such a deep-seated sorrow that his heart _burned._

_"Witchers don't grow old, Jaskier."_

He looks at Skala, a goliath amidst titans, kneeling at his feet-- and Jaskier just feels sick.

Jaskier stumbles away, shame burning his eyes. He drops to his knees in front of her, and presses his head against her own. "Don't," The bard manages to choke out, "Don't kneel to anyone _ever again._ "

The silence weighs down on the air like an anchor, tension hanging between them like stormy-black clouds. Finally, _finally_ , Skala lets out a snort and sweeps back up to her feet.

Something like approval swirls in her wine-stained irises, but it's gone before he can even blink. He struggles back upright, the warg using her snout to carefully support his weight as his muscles sluggishly wake up. Jaskier turns to the sky, and the moon still holds it's stubborn reign in the sky. The sun's rays are hidden behind a shroud of black ink, overtaken by the weeping stars that leaked across the horizon.

Alright. Hanna's about to discover a very sudden, very fluffy, change of plans.

Jaskier bares his teeth, throwing himself back into motion as Skala leaps off the rocky overhang and towards the west wall. With all due luck, Hanna should still be there with the ladder. And, sure enough, there she is-- staring wide-eyed at the countless predators hiding in the treeline as he walks towards her. She blinks, awe radiating off of her, before slowly raising a brow at him. "So, was this on purpose, little bird?"

Jaskier grins, flecks of blood staining his white teeth. "Not at all, milady! In fact, I thought they were going to eat me, to be rather frank."

She snorts, tossing down the rope ladder to him as he reached the bottom of the wall. "And here I was," she snarked, "Thinking that I'd need to run in there and get you myself. Perhaps you do have some claws hidden under all that courtly ruffles of yours, kid."

Skala huffed, nudging him back into motion as he pauses to gape up at the woman, "I'm at least _ten years older._ " 

Rolling her eyes, Hanna just levels him with a flat scowl. "Great, you have an excellent skin-care routine, now hurry up and _climb the fucking ladder_ before I _leave you in there_. Do you want to get your sister or _not_."

Needless to say, Jaskier rolls up his sleeves and climbs up pretty fucking fast. "So," he pants out, wiping sweat of his forehead, "What's the new plan now?"

She raises her pristine brow inquisitively, flickers of amusement in her green eyes, "Your new friends going to kill us, or the enemy?"

Jaskier looks down at Skala. Skala just blinks and chuffs.

"I," He remarks cheerfully, "Have no fucking clue."

Hanna grunts, then sighs out her frustration. "Close enough. Whatever. There's been news, however, and you'll want to hear it." At his searching stare, she only smiles grimly. "They've gotten bored again. They didn't hear you screaming, and now they're restless."

His hands turn to fists at his sides, quivering as an old fear flares up in his chest, "What are they planning?"

"You know the old, starved griffins they keep in the dungeons?"

Jaskier's heart freezes. "No. _No."_

Hanna clasps a steady, warm hand on his shoulder. "She's a vicious one, your sister, but she can't last forever. The fights were gearing up to start when I left, and we're running out of time, Jaskier. We're adjusting the plan, because even I'm not heartless enough to watch a fledgling griffin get gutted _._ "

She fishes out a ring of keys, the metal clinking noisily in the night. Jaskier stares at them, lightheaded as the endless litany of _-Alice-Alice-Alice-Alice-Alice-Alice--_ echoes around in his hollowed-out skull. 

"Gate keys," Hanna clarified, steadying him with calloused hand. "I was going to open the gates when I knew all of the villagers were safely inside, but... it's a risk we'll have to take. Not like a door will keep them out if they really wanted to eat us, anyway. The villagers don't mind dying, as long as those fucking hunters get shredded."

Jaskier struggles to form words, nothing but thankfulness echoing in the vestiges of his heart. He reaches out to grab her shoulders, dry lips finally steadying before he finally pulls her into a crushing hug. "Thank you," he rasps out, throat choked with emotion, " _Thank you."_

Her hand claps against his back, carefully patting his shoulder as Hanna's chin rested on top of his head. "Of course, birdie." They stand like that for a couple seconds, desperately holding each other together, before- finally- Hanna steps away. She straightens, turning towards the distant lights of the village, and clenches her fists.

Jaskier follows suit. Even from this distance, they can see the way the hunters shove at the villagers' backs- sending them toppling to the ground or, even worse, into the starving griffins' cages. Blood mingles with mud, bone cracked by steel, and it turns into a horrible cacophony that fills the night with horrors.

"There's a chance one of the guards might come up the path. All of them should be at the gathering, but they seemed paranoid tonight."

Breathing in the cool air, Hanna climbs down- dropping silently in front of the gate. Jaskier uses the rope to rappel his way down, landing on his feet behind her. He keeps an eye on the dirt path behind them, tense for any sign of trouble.

And, sure enough, there was trouble.

"Who's that by the gate, get away from there!"

Fucking _Marx_. Of course it'd be him.

Jaskier curses, even as Hanna fiddled with the keys behind him and began shoving them into the lock. "Hanna, _come on_ , hurry up!" 

"Shut _up,"_ She hisses back, panic lining her voice, "I can't fucking see much without a torch."

They both hear the sounds of Marx clambering up the path, noisy as all sin even as the sound of steel being drawn rings through the still air. Jaskier tenses before quickly patting down his doublet- he was an idiot and left the dagger back in the forest, but he should _still have the--_

"Is that-- Hanna? The fuck are you--"

Jaskier's fingers brush against glass, and he breathes out a sigh of relief. Thank _god_. "Stay here, and be _natural_." Hanna levels him with a withering glare, before he slips away into the shadow of a nearby tree- silent as the shades.

The watchman stares at her with pinched eyebrows, thumb running down the leather wrapping his sword's hilt. "What are you doing out here? The entertainment's the other way, giant."

She stands, leaning nonchalantly against the gate even as she continues to fiddle with the keys. "Oh please," Hanna scoffed, "If I wanted something to laugh about, I'd just take your pants off and laugh at your little buddy downstairs."

Inching closer carefully, Jaskier keeps as low to the ground as he possibly can. Marx scoffs, oblivious to his presence, as his sword lowers to the ground. " _Please_ , you weren't screaming that a couple hours ago."

Ah. So that's how she got the keys.

He needs to buy her a drink. A big one. A whole barrel of it, really.

Hanna rolls her eyes, a sneer pulling at her lips. "Oh yes," she drawled, "Forgive my indolence, sire. If you would like a comparison, I could perhaps find a nice little twig nearby and _shove it up your arse_."

"Careful of what you say," Marx scowls, lifting his sword up off the ground and holding it to her collarbone. "You aren't the one with the weapon, little girl."

Jaskier quietly uncorks the vial, now directly behind the man. He holds his breath, staring at Hanna meaningfully. To her credit, she doesn't even blink as the sword tip tilts her chin up-- she just smiles beatifically, "Of course, Marx, you're right. But, frankly, _neither are you_."

Quicker than he thought possible, Hanna jerks her head back- slamming her palm against the flat of the blade as she shoves it away from her. Marx stumbles, losing his grip on the sword as Jasker wraps his arm around the watchman's neck. The bard yanks his head back, holding his breath before raising the vial to the man's floundering lips and tipping the poisonous substance down Marx's throat. Lightning fast, Jaskier shoves the cork back on the glass bottle, throwing himself away from the hunter's body. Then, he waits.

It's... pretty instantaneous, he decides.

The bard watches with horrified fascination as Marx clutches at his throat, face and eyes swelling up as foam and pus begins to leak out of his eyes. His body begins to seize, limbs locking and quivering in the dirt while gnarled fingers begin to claw uselessly at the grass. Hoarse rasps slip out of his throat, vomit dribbling down the sides of his bulbous cheeks as the hunter begins to choke on his own stomach acid.

Marx's head tips over, staring at him piercingly as red veins begin to crack over his irises. The blood vessels in his eyes suddenly burst, leaking down his face as his purple, swollen lips keep mouthing the same words. _Help me._

It seems like forever before he finally stops moving.

Holy fuck.

Jaskier feels sick to his stomach, holding a hand to his mouth as he scrabbles backwards- spine colliding with the cool metal of the gate. He did that. _He did that_.

It does't properly sink in until he feels Hanna touch his shoulder with a gentle, "Jaskier? Are you alright?"

He stammers, fingers quivering as he clenches his eyes shut tight. It's just like Przerażenie, he tells himself. He had to. He _had_ to. Marx was the enemy, it was either them or him.

The bard turns onto his side and retches into the grass anyway. 

Letting himself have this moment of weakness, Jaskier furiously wipes away the vomit clinging to his lips. He breathes in slowly, _deeply_ , trying to focus on the grass beneath his hands and Hanna's hand on his back, rubbing soothing circles into the space between his shoulder blades. It was him or them. 

He did it for Alice. And he'd do it again, and again, and _again_ as long as it meant keeping her safe.

Jaskier reaches over to give Hanna's hand a thankful squeeze, then he struggles to his feet. The bard pulls her up and, together, the slot the last key inside the lock and twist.

The gate swings open, and a thousand eyes stare back at them. Skala steps forward, bounding towards the open gate and stopping before them. She eyes Hanna stonily, head tossing between the guard on the ground and the woman in front of her. She looms over the woman, teeth bigger than knives, and snarls.

Hanna stares back at her, head tipped forward in a vicious glare as she bares her teeth back- red curls bouncing around her face like rusted springs.

Eyes darting between them nervously, Jaskier clenches and unclenches his hands. Please-please- _please_ don't kill her, for the love of all that is holy, _please--_

It all comes to a head when another warg prowls up to her, black as night and three quarters the size of Skala herself. The alpha, still letting her simmering gaze burn deep into Hanna's own, regards her packmember thoughtfully. The warg sniffs, then licks the woman's clenched hand.

Softening immediately, Hanna's fingers slowly uncurl, letting the rough tongue cover her entire palm in slobber. The warg barks, satisfied, then affectionately butts his head against the woman's stomach. Skala's tension eases away, and Jaskier lets out a deep, relieved sigh. Another thought glides against the side of his mind, gentle like running water and--

"Rzeka."

When Hanna turns to stare at him questioningly, he just does a grand gesture to the warg nuzzling her and grins. "His name is Rzeka."

"Huh," She blinks owlishly. "...Rzeka. I have no idea how you knew that but, alright, birdie. Thought I was going to die but _this_ ," She smiles faintly, running her fingers through soft black fur, "This is a _much_ better outcome."

Jaskier snorts. "Not many have the guts to growl at an alpha, much less a human. So yeah, you're a unique one, to say the least."

"Not as unique as you, I'd wager," She muses, already turned towards the trail leading back to town. "Regardless, we're in the endgame. By now, if your griffin is still alive, she'll be onto the next one. We need to get back, _soon_."

_-Alice--_

Skala stops beside him, teeth hooking around the collar of his doublet. Jaskier blinks and then, suddenly, she's lifting him up onto her back. The bard clings to her fur, careful to avoid tugging at it, and looks at her with eyes as round as dinnerplates. She snorts at him, head raised imperiously before she rears back into a ear-splitting howl. When he looks over, Rzeka is doing the same thing to Hanna, planting her safely on his back before howling to the crimson red moon.

The forest comes to life behind them, singing with the songs of a thousand predators before he's _lurching_ into motion-- Skala's long strides eating up the path leading into the village in seconds.

Marching to his possible demise, Jaskier's only thought is that he just stole Geralt's 'White Wolf' moniker.

_Nice._

* * *

She's in a caged arena; trapped inside with a full-grown griffin that's double her size. She's fearful, nervous, worried-- _Jaskier, there's another griffin, I'm scared--_

_(--her predator wails, a chipped beak dripping with blood and gore from its previous opponent, and Alice does the only thing she can; she runs and runs and ru--)_

Alice doesn't know why she calls out to Jaskier to help her. He'd die, right in front of her, and it'd be her fault because her brother is a _human_. A small, skinny, jovial _human_ , with eyes like summer skies and a smile brighter than sunlight.

He's too soft; too nice and pretty and gentle to hurt someone for her.

**_-I'd drown the world, Alice--_ **

But humans aren't meant to be nice, she sees that now. They're meant to be big and angry, with angry sharp sticks and vicious snarls and _loud_ _noises_. She realises now, how truly _pure_ and _loving_ Jaskier is-- how special he is to be so soft in a world covered in jagged edges.

_(--The crowds above her jeer, tossing bits of steel and food as she ducks under flailing claws and whip-fast bites and her lungs hurt--)_

But still, she doesn't understand. She doesn't _understand_.

Griffins were monsters; slaughter was written in their blood, evident in their razor-claws and red-stained beaks. Griffins weren't meant to be associated with good things, like Dipper's habit of collecting flowers, or Rose's insistent bravery, or Twig's stoic gentleness. Griffins were hunters; _murderers_. It's what they were always _meant_ to be. 

_(--blood dribbles from her eye and Alice regrets everything, everything she ever said to her little sister and her big brother, because now she's going to die and the last thing they'll remember is her suffocating rage--)_

So _why_ , why is her _family_ so _good?_ Why is Dipper so timid, when his claws can rip out throats? Why is Rose so affectionate, when her beak can pluck out eyes? Why is Twig so protective of humans, when she's meant to _hurt them?_

Alice can't _understand_ it. She loves sinking her claws into flesh, dragging fresh kills to the campsite and feeding her family. She loves the rush of the hunt; the thrill of the chase as animals _scatter_ beneath the whistling of her talons. Blood tastes sweeter than sap on her tongue, and the sound of snapping bones makes her veins thrum with adrenaline. She's violent. She's cold. She's harsh. She's everything they're _not_.

It makes her head dizzy, wondering if she's truly deserving of them. It feels like she's spitting in their faces every time she returns to them and there's gore staining her feathers. Blood isn't meant to be so _sweet;_ it's not meant to be so _addicting_.

But it is. And she _hates it_.

Her brother doesn't crave blood. Her sister doesn't think about crushing bones in her mouth. Her mother doesn't ponder what it'd be like to hold someone's life in her hands. But she does, and it makes her feel like a _beast_.

_(--Is that truly so bad though? To revel in the bloodshed and guts and flesh? To feast and conquer?--)_

What is her role, amidst a family of saints?

What is a monster to do, when she's kin to the purest souls in existence?

She doesn't want to hurt people, but she doesn't want to roll over and be _defeated_. She wants to fight. Rage. Scream. _Kill._ She wants to lash out, break the world down into bricks, then build her family a castle out of it. 

Alice wants to...

She wants...

_"Look after the cubs, Alice. In this world of ours, family is all we have."_

_"Alice! Alice! Aliiiiice! Snowy gave me a rabbit, wanna share?"_

_"I-I, um. I g-got you a flower. It's p-pretty, like you!"_

_"Alice! Don't look so grumpy, want a song?"_

Alice wants her mother to hold her. She wants Rose to talk in her arms. She wants Dipper to put flowers in her feathers. She wants Jaskier to sing her to sleep. 

She wants to know they're _safe_.

She wants them happy, warm and loved. She wants them cradled in her wings, far away from everything in the world that could ever hurt them. She wants them close to her, where she can make sure all the bad people _bleed_ before they can hurt them. 

_(Her claws dig into the dirt. She skids to a halt and turns. Her prey skitters away, something like fear finally cracking through their dull green eyes like a sickness.)_

She chooses.

Alice will do anything to protect this little piece of the world that's hers, and _hers_ alone. Dipper, Rose, _Jaskier--_ they're so tiny, so fragile, so _breakable._ They are pretty glass statues, surrounded by iron spikes and storm-tossed waters. They are soft delicate flowers, floating blissfully along in a world burning down.

They are prey. Short and simple.

Life sees such wondrous, beautiful specimens; and it kills them. Mercilessly and without warning, someone is going to take them from her. And she hates it.

_(-The severed head hanging from her beak tastes like rust and rotten rabbit. Alice drops it, pretending not to hear the squelch it makes when it hits the mud. She wonders how her brother would react, seeing her pretty white feathers stained red with intestines and gore. She feels ill and the world spins--)_

Alice won't be the meek lamb in a field of wolves.

She is made from talons and fury, the inheritor of her mother's strength and dominance. She is strength and blood and _wrath_. She is the thrum of adrenaline in her veins, the steady beat of her heart in the midst of battle, and the rivulets of blood raining from her claws.

Alice is a killer. And that is her choice.

_-Big brother--_

**_-Alice-_ **

Alice will kill anyone, any _thing_ , that stands against her family. She turns her eyes on the ones trying to hold her captive, and readies herself for a hunt.

_I'm coming for you, stay safe._

_(-The world stops spinning--_

_blood stains her tongue_

_mud dirties her claws_

_and--)_

Even as another griffin is let into the cage, beak snapping, Alice has never felt more _free._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> putting this chapter's endnotes in the next chapter's, mainly bc they're meant to be joint. i'll post the chapter when i get home in the evening i promise
> 
> also, seE GUYS LOOK ALICE ISN'T JUST A BRATTY ASSHOLE, SHE'S A BADASS BRATTY ASSHOLE AND WE LOVE HER RIGHT
> 
> in other news, yes. yes i drew another picture. yes it's edgy. yes it's alice. yes i'll probably end up doing one for each griffin. and yes, yes i am sorry for it ok  
> [alice - bloodmoon](https://imgur.com/a/Gt1ggBx)


	11. Walka

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fuck- the fuck- the fuck is in the air. The fuck, people stabbing him everywhere.
> 
> There's only one person Jaskier wants to be stabbed by, thanks. And it sure ain't this guy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I accidentally deleted the chapter bc i have no brain cells at all so yeah sorry mY BAD

"Alright, you frowny fucks!"

The people enraptured by the cage-fighting beneath them whirl around, swords and bows well-in-hand as they glower at the voice that cut through the night's entertainment. Jaskier glowers down at them, armed with nothing but his wicked good looks as Skala towers over the masses-- maw blood and with torn flesh still lodged between her teeth. Rzeka rears to a stop behind them, Hanna casually propping a massive warhammer she'd wrestled from the last hunter up on her shoulder.

"Hands in the air, and nobody loses their family jewels!"

A million eyes light up the darkness behind them, red as sin as a cacophony of angry, pissed off predators stalk from out of the shadows of shacks and trees alike. They prowl past the bloodied, mud-strewn villagers-- honing in on the armed hunters.

There's a heavy, almost fragile silence until something bloody suddenly flies out from between the cage's bars, landing with a harrowing squelch between the two opposing forces.

Jaskier clasps his hands over his ears when an ear-splitting screech pierces the air, followed by the sound of creaking steel as _something_ pounds against the cage's bars. With every collision, they can hear the metal _bend_ and _crack_ , before finally giving away with an explosive shatter. The debris crashes to the ground, kicking up dust and impaling the unlucky few hunters that dared to linger once the crashing had started.

Three talons wrap around the remnants of the steel beams, followed by the slow unfurl of snow-white wings that rise ominously over the cage's rim. Languidly, _threateningly_ , an ashy visage with wrathful ice-like eyes emerged from the pit-- two freely bleeding gashes running across its' face. A black beak, littered with gore and blood, snaps at the air. Thin, obsidian pupils dissect the humans before it like a healer, a displeased warble lodged deep in hits throat.

Then, their eyes land on him. Jaskier wants to be terrified, but all he feels...

Is warm. Soft. Loved. _Family._

- ** _Alice--_**

There's a flash of recognition, and then something warm lights up her blood-streaked face. _Jaskier! Thank goodness you're safe, otherwise I'd have to kill Snowy as consequence!_

He chokes back a sob, then he's leaping off Skala's back and _running_.

"Alice!"

Behind him, Skala rears into motion. She charges at the hunters, shrugging off the arrows burying into her thick, scar-ridden pelt and _roars_. The night comes alive with the sounds of a bloody hunt, Hanna's weapon shattering the nearest hunter's skull while Rzeka rips off another's arm. Carnage plays out a wicked tune, but Jaskier pays attention to none of it. All he sees is Alice, haloed by billowing smoke, alive and well and _okay--_

His heart nearly stops. Jaskier goes pale, and he screams listlessly as he waves his arms at her. _"Alice! Behind you!"_

She blinks at him owlishly, heedless of the foreboding flicker of green sparking to life in the smoke, before she finally manages to haul herself over the pit's rim. Alice opens her wings, flapping weakly as she slowly rises into the air. He feels relief swarm up in his chest, nothing can touch her when she's flying, even if she's still a bit clumsy--

Roots split up from the earth, wrapping around her loose talons before mercilessly pulling her back down. Alice startles, screeching as she kicks wildly at the encroaching vines, squawking as they entwine through her wings. Jaskier feels another scream work its way out of his throat when she crashes to the ground, smoke and ash billowing up into the air around her.

Right. Okay. That's definitely normal.

"What a gorgeous beast," A booming voice rung out from within the clouds of dust, nothing but a vaguely feminine silhouette able to be seen through the smokescreen. "Another lovely souvenir to add to my mantle!"

That's definitely not normal.

A long, heeled boot finally emerged from the grey clouds, followed by a leather-clad leg, torso, arms and-- yeah, that's a mage. A mage with glowing fingers, a sketchy looking cowl, and a penchant for the colour green.

Okay then. There's a first time for everything.

Jaskier draws back, raising an eyebrow as he presses himself flat against Alice's side-- still trying to pull the vines off of her, "Yeah, you're crazy. You're not allowed within ten feet of my sister, lady, who even _invited_ you?"

"Such nerve," The woman huffed, waving smoke out of her with a graceful twist of her hand. "Get away from my prize, boy. She has such a symmetrical face, it will be the perfect center-piece for my mantle at home."

Alice looks at him. He looks back.

Well. Now that she's pointed it out, she's not exactly wrong.

Jaskier taps his chin thoughtfully, _you know, she's right._ _It's rather... circular? Like an apple. Or a tomato--_

_Jaskier, shut up._

_-A really emotionally stunted, abusive, bruised tomato--_

_I will fly us to a mountain, just to gain the pleasure of throwing you off of it._

Well.

Sorry, mysterious magic lady.

Jaskier turns back, and shrugs helplessly. "She said no."

"I-- what?" For a moment, the witch seemed so flabbergasted that she just reared back in surprise, her flawless face scrunching up in confusion, "I wasn't- I wasn't _asking._ You don't get a choice. Do you not understand what a threat is?"

Of course he does, who does she think he is, _Geralt_?

But the matter of the fact is that he's _tired_ , and _sweaty_ , and _emotionally worn-out_. In his right mind, he'd probably be terrified; but right now? Right now she could take a big fat golden shit on his shoe and he wouldn't have the energy to care. In fact, he'd probably prefer that to whatever the fuck this is.

"Lady," Jaskier pinched the bridge of his nose, ignoring the migraine pulsing behind his eyes. "I don't care. I, don't, _care_. You aren't taking my sister, so you can fuck right on off and eat my witcher's dick for all I care. Now, _begone_. I have no desire to gaze upon your repugnant appearance more than I already have. Oh, and take your _hunters_ with you, yes?" 

_Speaking of your wolf,_ Alice relaxed in her restraints, content to glower imperiously at the spluttering woman in front of them, _he seems a little bit restless. Dipper and Rose are still with him, of course._

The woman stabbed a single, finely painted finger in his direction. "Now, _look here--_ "

Jaskier ignored her. _Oh, that's good. You think they're getting along? Of course, I would've been there to make sure they haven't done anything stupid, but_ unfortunately _, I had to rescue my idiotic baby sister who threw a tantrum._

_Oh please. Spare me, brother, if I wished to be talked to death I'd have told you-- besides, I did all of the work, you just watched._

_Ex-excuse me?! Do you not see all of the wargs? What about the lady with the sledgehammer? Skala? Rzeka?_

_The true heroes of this saga, you mean. Profiting off your fellows' hard work again, hm?_

He pivots on his heel, giving up on all pretenses of listening to the mage prattle on while he stares at Alice incredulously. _I poisoned someone, you ungrateful pigeon! I threatened Geralt! I stopped mom from murdering Geralt! I convinced a pack of wild wargs to not murder an entire village! I'm fucking amazing!_

Alice just laughs at him- as in, she warbles. Tauntingly _._

Jaskier's eye twitches, _you little shit--_

Suddenly, Alice is blasted away from him- a plume of green magic slamming into her chest, slipping off of her feathers and seeping into the dirt like water as the roots holding her in place snap from the spells' force. Jaskier stumbles back in surprise, gagging as a foul stench began to taint the air. He cheers as his sister rises, beak clicking and talons poised, taking a smooth, threatening step forward. The promise of murder echoed in her cold, predatory eyes- sharper than steel and colder than ice.

Then, she stumbles.

Alice pauses, swaying in place. She tries to take another step, and her talons _slip_.

He watches in muted horror as she struggles to catch herself, limbs scrabbling awkwardly as her legs sluggishly sunk beneath her weight. Muscles still straining, Alice falls to the earth again; lying limply as her eyes swiveled around in her skull in a manic craze, unable to move as the gaseous paralytic seeped into her flesh.

That's not good.

The mage stalks closer, seething with burning emerald hands and a nightmarish smile. "I'll take her head- right after I've taken _yours!_ "

_Oh--_

* * *

_-fuck._

Geralt's bored. Really bored. He's so fucking bored, holy shit. He could be doing something right now, like walking on a road. Or riding on Roach. Or sharpening his swords. Or hunting dinner. Or just literally anything else that's more useful than being sandwiched between two dog-sized griffins that don't understand personal space.

He sighs. It's long. It's deep. It's the accumulation of nearly two days of _constant. Worrying_. 

The night still hasn't ended, sky an endless shroud of black with dripping red stars. A bloody gash twines through the cosmos, glowing ominously as the moon cracks and cracks and _cracks_ \--

Something's happened to Jaskier. He knows it, he can _feel it,_ but he can't do anything about it. And that just makes him that _littlest bit_ annoyed.

He knew he shouldn't have let the bard go, regardless of what Twig said. But, he had. For some godless reason, he _had_ , and now he regretted it. What if the idiot dies? What if he goes ahead and loses his arm or something? What if he's stuck here like this _forever?_

Geralt shudders.

Dipper squawks from the spot he's claimed over his lap, staring up at him with wide, guileless eyes. Geralt shifts, letting his fingers card through the soft feathers that line the griffin's back. Rose nudges her head against his side, resting her chin on top of her brother's neck as she stares out into the woods. Both of them had been twitchy lately, letting out low keens as they sniffed and curled up around Jaskier's pack. Even Roach had been looking more withdrawn than usual, always gazing around the clearing, trying to find something that isn't there.

It sucks.

Maybe it's because he hasn't been able to see sunlight in days, or because of the lack of stimulation, but Geralt actually _misses_ the bard. A lot. A frighteningly large amount, really. He hasn't been able to sleep since Jaskier spirited himself away, and it... well.

It's not doing wonders for his mental stability, to say the least.

Unbidden, a memory washes over his mind. It was the night following one of the worst contracts in his Path, where one pack of Drowners turned into a school of fucking Sirens led by an Ekhidna. He'd dragged himself back to camp, dripping in guts and mud, out of potions with a single bottle of White Honey to clear the potions' toxicity out of his bloodstream. Geralt vaguely recalls fainting, Jaskier's big blue eyes staring at him and Roach's alarmed whinnies in his ears, and wanting to reach out to hold them both close.

Of course, he didn't, because he's a man of _control_ and _restraint_ and _he didn't grab Jaskier's hand, fuck off_.

He might've vomited on the bard's shoes, though. 

No wait, he definitely did. It's good to know that he has impeccable aim, even while heavily poisoned and bleeding to death. Rather reassuring, really.

When he woke up next, it was to Jaskier's long fingers carefully carding through his hair, undoing the knotted ends with gentle hands. His wounds were bandaged and salved, the unbearable pain turned to a dull ache, as the cool air settled over his super-heated skin. A lullaby brushed against his ears, in words he couldn't understand, dripping with tenderness in every lilting verse.

The fire crackled next to them, moonlight slipping through the trees' branches while Roach rested her heavy head on her witcher's lap. Her warm breath brushed against his hands as she nosed his stomach, the smell of leather, sweat and earth weighing down on him like a well-loved blanket. 

It felt like home. It was home. It _is_ home.

A home he won't get to feel again, if Jaskier isn't fucking there with him. Which he isn't, because the idiot's running around waving a dagger around, trying to get him and his sister killed in whatever hellscape he's jumped into this time.

Not that he wants that feeling again. Or Jaskier to brush his hair. Or sing him to sleep. Or close to him in general. That's ridiculous. He's Geralt of Rivia, Butcher of Blaviken, he doesn't do _domestics_.

He doesn't pretend to stargaze, or hunt Jaskier's food, or cook it for him because he's pretty and fragile and human, and he absolutely doesn't take him to burning, griffin-hunter villages or anything-

Hm. 

That smoke-cloud wasn't there before.

He rubs his eyes, double-checking the massive column of pitch-black smoke rises over the forest's treetops. 

Huh. That's where Jaskier disappeared off to. And it's on fire.

Okay, nice to know--

-Wait, it's on fire.

Geralt jolts upright, gaping, heedless to Dipper's startled chirp as he tumbles out of his lap. He blinks owlishly, head tilting as the smell of burning wood and sulfur invades his nostrils. Standing, he grabs his well-oiled swords, making short work of equipping his armour back on as he kicks ash over the campfire. Nearby, Roach startles awake, pawing at the dirt restlessly. Hurriedly, the witcher haphazardly gathers up the packs, throwing them in the saddlebags before readying her bridle and swinging himself up onto the mare's back. He gathered the reins in his hands, eyes stuck on the burning horizon, then nudges her sides with his heels.

Roach doesn't move.

He grunts, "Roach, please."

She tosses her head, then pointedly flicks him with her tail before stamping the ground.

Geralt throws his head back, teeth gritting as he drops the reins. "I'm _sorry_ , but Jaskier's out there, probably dying, and we need to--" Roach, evidently tired of listening to him, just turns her entire body around to face the two griffins still sitting by the campfire, stinking of fear and worry as they stare up at him guilelessly. He blinks, then pinches the bridge of his nose, "-Right. Shit, uh..."

Jaskier's baby-griffins. He forgot about those. Them. Its. Whatever they are.

He rubs his forehead, before pointing at them. "You guys know how to bite people?"

Dipper looks at his sister, shuffling uncertainly, while she excitedly hops up and down. Rose takes a demonstrative chomp out of nearby bush, neatly ripping it out of the dirt. She shows him a gummy smile, thorn-impaled tongue hanging out of her mouth. Dipper sneezes, then promptly topples over with a squeak.

Fuck, they're so dead.

"Good enough for me, brats. Hop on."

Gods, Jaskier's going to fucking kill him.

* * *

Jaskier's a bard, not a warrior. He doesn't have magic, the manifest of Chaos itself to fling at his enemies. He doesn't have a silver sword, something that he wields with cutting precision and swirling arcs of death. He doesn't have a well of strength to draw upon like in the old stories, nor does he have any formal training at all to draw on.

He's not Geralt, or Yennefer. He's not a witcher, or a chaos-bringer.

He's a singer. A performer. He dances from table to table, dodging drunk patrons, thrown fruit and straying hands. He's a bard, who lost his instrument and livelihood up on a mountain, protecting a child from her death.

Jaskier's a bard. But just because he's a bard, doesn't mean he can't protect the things he loves.

He looks over at Alice. His sister's eyes stare at him, rage and wordless terror reflecting in her moon-disc pupils as her emotions thrum down the thread of their souls. Jaskier hardens himself, flattening himself against the ground as a bolt of blue magic soars over his head. He jumps up, rolling towards one of the dead hunter and grabbing the quiver of arrows strapped to their back. Ducking beneath another flash of lightning, he hurriedly looks around for another weapon. 

A lute, left in the mud, made from a beautifully oiled wood, coupled with shining silver strings and gorgeous engravings. It sits near a lifeless villager's extended hand, catching the light on its embellished sides tauntingly. Next to it, the hunter's shabby bow- nicked and battered, but sturdy. Jaskier's fingers twitch, already envisaging strumming a gaudy tale and raucous applause in an inn-- behind him, Alice screeches at him, pawing uselessly at the ground.

He leaps forward and grabs the bow.

Wrapping his hands around the leather handle, Jaskier greets the new weight like an old friend- seamlessly and with impossible agility. He marvels at how _familiar_ it feels, testing the strength and pull, before darting back into the smoke- disappearing into the darkening smog as he slings the bow horizontally across his chest. Trying not to think too hard on the fact its been years since he last used a weapon, he focuses on not tripping over his own feet as gravel gives way to to the forest-floor.

"Where do you think you're going? Aren't trying to _escape,_ are you?"

Now, Jaskier isn't a dangerous man. He isn't a trick-shot extraordinaire, or a ranger with unparalleled ferocity. But he is, however, a _smart_ man. And a smart man once said to him, this particular nugget of knowledge; that mages can't cast on what they can't see.

He never thought he'd be putting that advice to the test, but here he is. Testing it.

Fun.

Jaskier measures out his breathing, taking in slow breathes as he bounds deeper into the thicket. He can hear the witch's footsteps behind him, cracking twigs and branches underfoot as he ducks beneath trees and vaults over bushes. It's- it's almost like old times, really. Long nights under starlight, nothing but the moon smiling down at him--

"Do stop running, dear, it's quite unbecoming!"

-Right, the crazy lady.

As silently as he can, the bard hooks his bow around a low hanging branch, wincing as the weapon's well-oiled wood creaks in protest. Quickly, Jaskier swings himself up, arms twinging as he flips himself upright. His feet land deftly on the sturdy tree limb, and he gives himself a small moment to unhook his bow and rejoice before he's moving. He leaps from tree to tree, bow ready at his side as he climbs further skyward.

He needs to go higher, and he needs to get her _away_ from the village. If this mage is at all similar to Yennefer, collateral damage is about to be the least of his problems.

But, really, Jaskier can't afford to pay for their repairs, _so_. 

He pushes himself further and further, thighs burning as he ascends to the higher, thinner branches. Hooking his bow around a sturdy limb, Jaskier tests the stability before swinging himself onto it. Pushing himself flat against the branch, he wraps his legs around its width and prays he doesn't fall to his death.

That would suck. Like, a lot.

 _It's just like hunting a deer,_ he tells himself. _Just smaller. And humaner. And bitchier._

Drawing an arrow from the quiver hanging from his shoulder, the bard presses himself against the tree's bark, pulling the drawstring back quietly as he stares unblinkingly into the forest. The village, and Alice, is far behind him now- a blot of ash and smoke on a blood-tinged horizon. Tension echoes in his ears like war-drums, adrenaline burning through his veins while the sounds of war crackle in the distance.

_And also a lot scarier._

Far below his feet, a twig snaps.

Jaskier snaps back to attention, something feral causing him to pull his lips back and growl. Leveling the arrow-tip on the back of the mage's head, he keeps telling himself; _it's just like a deer, don't fuck it up, don't fuck it up, **don't fuck it up--**_

"When I'm through with you and your pet, your pretty witcher is next _, boy._ Nilfgaard hounds for the scent of blood-"

His fingers tremble, palms sweaty while terror begins to clog up his throat. _Just kill her, take the shot, it's fine, she's taking the piss out of you, just_ **kill her, Jaskier _\--_**

"-Once the lion's den burns, the north is next. Redania, Velen, Temeria- all will fall under the empire's shadow. My prowess will finally be recognised! I won't be shafted again, and Tissaia will realise who was truly her strongest student as she _burns--_ "

Fuck, she's crazy.

"-From the White Orchard to Kaer Morhen, the White Flame purges--"

Jaskier lets the drawstring go, and watches as the arrow flies. 

He prays he doesn't miss.

(He doesn't.)

* * *

Panna lived in Novigrad, like most hidden dopplers. Every alley-way was etched into her memory like a notebook, she knew the best inns and the quietest libraries and the rowdiest taverns in the whole city-- she knew _everything_. Information was at her fingertips, entire lifetimes memorized within the confines of her head as she lived from household to household, mimicking, surviving, and _praying_.

That is, until, things miraculously changed. 

With Chappelle's drastic change of heart, it had been easier to live her life. The risk of discovery no longer loomed over her neck like an executioner's axe and, for the first time in years, Panna could _breathe_. She had time to spare, love to hold, and a hope for the future that was as bright as the twinkle in her eyes. And now, all she had to do was find her husband, gather their daughter, then live out the rest of their existence in peace. 

Peace. Quiet. Normalcy. 

Home.

So she packed her bags, and off she went. Southward and homebound, to Loredo.

It took many months of travel, switching guises from warg, to marauder, to mage, until- at long last- she found it. Loredo, the Bandit's Lair.

She found it, and it was burning.

Panna remembers sifting through ashes, jumping from flames to flames, mimicking soldiers and bandits and hunting dogs alike. The smell of burning flesh clogged her lungs, the soot settling over her flesh like dirt as a thief's head toppled to the floor nearby- a soldier's glinting iron sword singing through the air. She kept moving, never stopping; running from one house to the next, from the lodge to the tavern to the farmland--

It's there that she had stumbled, tripping over something jutting out of the earth.

A ring stared up at her, glinting gold and copper in the firelight. Next to it, a handwoven doll with a big nose and a bulbous face. The clanking of steel rings in her ears, black armour etched with sunlight, and eyes harsher than wrought-iron.

Something unfamiliar bubbled up in her chest. It was red, black and ugly- vicious and boiling, super-heated and _raging_ and Panna remembered feeling her heart twist, snap and _break--_

When Panna next woke up, it was in the midst of blood and corpses. Disemboweled guts hung from her trembling palms, stringy flesh lodged firmly between her teeth as screams ricocheted in the space between her ears. Behind her, she remembered the feeling of Chaos tickling the back of her neck, but all she could see was bloodstained rings and ash-ridden dolls.

She had turned, she remembered, to a woman stepping out of the portal. Dark skin, blue robes, cropped hair-- Panna feels her claws turn to fingers, the familiar thrum of magic burning in her lungs as black eyes turn brown. 

The stranger had stared at her, cold as riverstone, and Panna felt the unfamiliar surge of _hatred_ and _burning_ and _raging_ and she wanted _blood_ \--

Spells had flickered over her mind like an old distant friend, illusions and reality bending to her will as she battled against every bolt of magic thrown her way. Chaos raged in her chest, beating like a drum in her lungs as ice, storm and fire burned at the tips of her fingers. Panna keeps thinking about cold rings, smoldering houses and dead children, until everything around her is warping-

Her husband suddenly stood in front of her. Her daughter stood at his foot, holding onto his arm. They held out their hands to her, smiling with grey lips and burnt eyes as flames licked at their heels like hungry hounds. 

She felt her body melt, smooth skin slipping back into coarse leather. Fingers joined into claws, satin fraying into rough-spun cloth. Panna reached out, grabbing their palms and holding on tight, letting the burn of Chaos and magic trickle off of her to fade into the night's air. They lead her through a portal, and darkness fell over her vision like a veil.

Panna didn't see light for many years thereafter.

Days were spent staring lifelessly at the corners of her cell, watching her husband tear out her daughter's eyes and tear out her stomach with his claws. Nights were quiet, filled with nothing but the quiet sobs of a phantom girl as she slowly burned alive.

"It hurts," she sobbed, black tears swollen with ash dripping from bloodless eyes, _"It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, mother, help--"_

Her husband stood outside her door, ignoring the scraping of her claws against silver bars as he glowers down at her. "You did this," he mouths silently, "You did this to yourself and you _killed us_."

Grey lips and burnt eyes, fire rubbing their skin raw as a blinding sun glared down at her from a canvas of cold, harsh blackness. Her meals slithered with worms, innards swimming with doughy lumps of flesh in a crude wooden bowl. She slaps it away, and it splatters the wall with a dark, crimson red. The little girl cries again, neck dripping as her blood mingles with the stain on the floor.

Panna scrubs at it with her shirt. The colour never changes.

_Days. Weeks. Years._

"You killed us."

_Seconds. Minutes. Hours._

"You abandoned us."

_House to lodge. Tavern to farmland._

"You watched us burn and it was all. Your. Fault."

_Grey lips, burnt eyes. Hungry flames with a thousand mouths._

**_She killed them._ **

Emptiness fills her lungs, hollowing out her bones as the words echo violently in her skull. Everything tastes like ash, 

Light floods her cell for the first time in _days-weeks-years-seconds-minutes--_ and a voice like graphite grinds against her eardrums. "Stand."

She stands. Panna looks up, and a figure cut from riverstone and mountains stares down at her like a goddess. Her claws divide into fingers, cloth turns into velvet, and ugly leatherhide smooths into soft porcelain white and golden strands of hair.

Fringilla smiles down at her. It's harsh and ridged, cutting like jagged stones against her throat. "The witcher is north. Bring him to me."

A portal sings to life in front of her, and Panna breathes out. Briena breathes in.

Chaos swirling in her throat like birdsong. Magic brushes against her skin like tree-roots, mists twining around her wrists and ankles as her eyes burn red. Her heart pulses with a second rhythm, nature pushing against the soles of her feet and vibrating through her skin.

She steps through the portal, and stares at a small village bustling with the smell of herbs and medicine. Griffins call over the horizon, wargs howling in the forests, and Panna pauses. Hesitates. She doesn't want to--

**_You killed us._ **

Briena's feet move with a mind of its own and Panna screams, staring at a village full of burning corpses and hanging children. She smiles disarmingly at a village's blacksmith, batting her pretty ruby eyes. "Is there an apothecary here? I'm all out of mandrake root." 

•••

An arrow lodges itself in her shoulder. Briena falls to the earth with a spurt of blood, and Panna reaches out to scrub the colour out of the dirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> geralt: get in the car bitches we're going hunting  
> rose: FUCK YEAH STACY WOOO--  
> dipper: why
> 
> ALSO, straysod did a gorgeous picture of jaskier and twig right [here!](https://straysod.tumblr.com/post/612840462052671488/jaskier-from-karaunaa-s-fic) go look at it and give it some love, bc god knows i was screaming about it for like, a solid week  
> i might have cried a lil bit but that's just between us ok  
> sO YEAH THANK YOU ALL, YOU'RE ABSOLUTE SWEETHEARTS AND ILY  
> SORRY THIS IS SO LATE AND LONG, we're on quarantine over here but since retail is essential service, im drowning in work and sanitiser

**Author's Note:**

> i dont know what im doing anymore
> 
> what is this
> 
> where am i
> 
> why am i h e r e


End file.
